


Gramarye

by Lisztful



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Community: paperlegends, M/M, bigbang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-09
Updated: 2010-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-12 13:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 47,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisztful/pseuds/Lisztful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of the dragon's escape, Morgana is missing and Uther is running Arthur and his knights ragged with fruitless searching. As the hunt continues, Merlin must come to terms with his growing feelings for Arthur, his discomfort at the way Arthur throws himself into danger in order to prove himself to his father, and his suspicion that Morgause may not be as evil as he'd once thought. Just as things begin to fall into place, a revelation about Gwen's past throws the court into turmoil, causing Uther's rage to spiral out of control. Finally, prompted by the return of Mordred, Merlin and Arthur must choose between Uther's Camelot and the people they love, perhaps including each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gramarye

[ ](http://s875.photobucket.com/albums/ab311/Lisztful/?action=view&current=MerlinArthurPoster.jpg)

In the winter, the cold settles into the depths of the castle. It's a deep, heavy feeling that wraps around fingers and settles itself about ears and the bases of throats. Though everyone in the castle experiences this, hemmed in as they are by solid stone, it's the servants who feel the cold the most.

Merlin is familiar with this cold. He's grown up with the feeling of never being quite warm enough during the winter, of always wishing for more blankets. However, the feeling of the stone slicing through the back of his jacket when he brushes against the wall is new. At home, everything was small and close, so that even the most frugal of fires found its way to the depths and corners of the room to soften the tension in Merlin's stiff, icy hands. Here, the stone swallows up the heat, particularly in the rooms that aren't adorned with heavy tapestries. Even in the richly furnished rooms inhabited by the likes of Arthur and other members of the royal court, the warmth of the fire is absorbed almost before it can do any good. Merlin finds himself scurrying to find Arthur more blankets each night, begging another out of the head laundress by offering a bribe of his luncheon bit of brown bread. The bread is thick and lumpy, the flour mixed with ground up acorns to stretch the wheat crop a little longer. The laundress takes it anyway.

When he wakes up at dawn, Merlin concludes that mornings are the worst time of day. He always spends a few moments twisting deeper into the curl of his body, tucking his heels up and his head down and pressing his cold chin against his chest. His ears are constantly chilly, as is the corner of his jaw. When he finally gives up and removes his night shift, he closes his eyes and tries to convince himself that he isn't shivering. His eyes feel cold and heavy too.

Merlin sleeps with his clothes balled up beside him. His blanket doesn't capture much heat, so there's little to be absorbed by the clothes, but at least they don't have the bite of the stone that sends him shying away from leaning carelessly against walls or doorjambs.

Even once he's dressed, the cold continues to settle slowly into him. He eats a bowl of porridge in the morning, thick and heavy and not tasting like much, but that's all right because the warmth is comfort enough. It's never quite enough to satisfy him, but Merlin tries to act full so Gaius won't feel obligated to give him some of his own breakfast.

Afterward, Merlin breaks the ice at the well, and brings back enough water for both Gaius and Arthur. It's something he'd like very much to do with magic, but he hasn't quite perfected how to do it without looking suspicious about it. Besides, when his hands are numb and red and his throat is tight with the cold that almost feels like it's coming from inside him, he can't quite make his magic do what he wants it to. It's sloppy and sluggish, mirroring his thoughts.

He drags the buckets of water up to Arthur's room, back and forth until his bath is readied. Here Merlin does cheat, heating the water with a quick, careless spell that more often than not results in singed hands.

After that, while Arthur is still asleep, he fumbles with the kindling and starts a fire in the hearth, kneeling before it until it blazes strong and high. By the time he wakes Arthur, the cold has receded to that deepest part of Merlin's chest, where it rests like a weight, pulling at him from within and sagging his shoulders.

This winter has been particularly harsh, and with all the trails frozen to solid ice beneath the snow, the farming villages that hold the grain storehouses and other supplies of produce are unreachable. Food is being rationed, even Arthur's food, and the chores Merlin has had to trade for pinches of salt and an extra ration of fatty pork and tiny bits of fish have almost entirely negated any free time Arthur allows him. Everyone is thin and tired, still recovering from the dragon's assault on the kingdom, and Camelot suffers along with Uther as the search for Morgana continues on fruitlessly.

All of this Merlin does without a word, because it's far too cold to complain.

Today, Arthur is quietly morose through his supper. Uther, already worn thin by Morgana's disappearance with Morgause, is furious with Arthur because of a border skirmish with a company of bandits, resulting in the loss of a seasoned knight and the escape of several of the bandits. Merlin had not seen the event first hand, for it had begun as a casual hunting trip, and most of the servants had been called away from their usual duties to help scrape ice from the most commonly traversed stairways and stretches of battlement.

He'd been curled in his bed, as was the norm, huddled under his blanket, cradling his hands, raw and split from the labor, still trembling and tender to the touch. Arthur wasn't due back for hours.

Arthur had stumbled into Gaius's chambers just after dark, his clothes full of rents and crusted with iced-over blood. Merlin had heard the commotion and ignored it, then he heard the voice, Arthur's voice, sharp and uncooperative. Merlin roused himself to help Gaius cut away the ruined shirt and apply herbed compresses to Arthur's wounds.

Eventually, Gaius had left to consult with Uther, and they were alone. Arthur wouldn't say what had happened on the hunt. Yet he did tell Merlin, in a short, emotionless sentence, that Uther was furious with him and had told him that he was to blame for the loss of the other knight. Merlin just placed his hand over the compress on Arthur's chest, fingers outstretched.

Now two days later, Uther is still furious, and Arthur is stiff and silent with the knowledge of it. Merlin is nearly quivering with the helpless rage of knowing that Uther hasn't told Arthur that he's glad he's alive, hasn't said that it isn't his fault, or that these things happen. These things _do_ happen, is the worst of it, and Merlin can't understand why Uther chose this instance to be unforgivably angry with Arthur for it.

Merlin knows that they'll ride out after the escaped bandits soon, and that he will go along, though what they really ought to do is look for Morgana. In the meantime, Merlin quietly folds back Arthur's bedcovers and presses him toward the bed and sleep, though Arthur would rather sit up and brood.

Sure enough, the summons comes three days later, once Arthur's wound has faded to a dull line, cutting palely across his chest. The waiting period has been wretched, so it's almost a relief to hear the coldly worded message from Uther ordering Arthur to seek out the criminals and avenge the knights and his own honour. Merlin packs up rounds of bread in a clean cloth and adds as much dried meat as he can lay his hands on. There's a bit of fruit, too, old and going shriveled, and he packs that as well.

Merlin dresses Arthur in his warmest tunic and jerkin. It's strange being in such an intimate situation without the jibes that usually dispel the tension. Without the banter, Merlin has nothing to distract him from the slow rise and fall of Arthur's chest, pulling his tunic taut and then loose again. The chamber feels unnaturally quiet, and Arthur's breathing rings harsh in the absence of any other sounds. Merlin finishes with a hand placed solidly over the saddle knot of Arthur's belt. "You're ready," he says. Not a question.

When they set out, it's alone, just the two of them. Merlin had thought they'd ride with a company of knights, but apparently Arthur's guilt complex has decided that he (and by extension, Merlin) will do the avenging without putting any other knights in danger. Merlin isn't sure whether to be relieved or irritated. While this means that there's no chance of conversation with someone in a less surly mood, he also feels strangely possessive of Arthur when he's like this, and doesn't want anyone else poking at his wounds. No, this is a sort of self-imposed exile, and Merlin supposes it's for the best.

They ride for a day over hard-packed snow. It's treacherous, and Merlin hates Uther more fiercely than he ever has before. He doesn't know much about having a father, but if it's anything like having a mother, then he wouldn't send his child into terrible danger just to prove a point. Not danger like this, anyway, of the petty sort. The idea of losing Arthur to too-thin ice over a stream, or to frostbite or sickness caught in the ill humours of the overcast day, these are too dishonourable to contemplate, a waste of a man who is destined to be great. It sickens Merlin to think of it.

In the evening, they stop and make camp. There's not much shelter available, but there are a few cracked, frozen trees still standing, while the ground feels a little more springy than on the beaten-down path, perhaps evidence of fallen leaves beneath the snowdrifts. Merlin stumbles down into the lowest point of the little clearing, kneeling to start a fire with numb hands. After a moment, he watches Arthur's face, happy to see it beginning to regain its color as he leans in toward the burgeoning flames. They eat bits of dried meat and Merlin holds the bread near the fire until it's pleasantly warm. They don't say a word, but after the supplies are hung on a branch high above them, they lay out their bedrolls next to the fire, and Merlin shifts slightly so that he and Arthur are connected back-to-back by a sliver of warmth. Arthur doesn't move away.

In the morning, they're both chilled through to the bone. The fire has burned low, and they're unpleasantly wet where the snow has melted enough to leak through their bedrolls. Merlin rubs furiously at Arthur's left side from hip to knee, where his gait is stiff and laboured. Arthur still doesn't say anything, and Merlin has to blink rapidly to keep his angry tears at bay.

They ride again, Arthur stopping occasionally to dismount and look more closely at a broken branch or indentations in the old, crusted-over snow. Merlin doesn't feel as though they're closing in on anything, but then, he's not a tracker.

By midday, the temperature seems to have dropped even farther, and Merlin is having difficulty staying awake. He glances blearily over at Arthur, who seems to be having the same problem. This is enough to rouse Merlin.

"Arthur," he cries, loud enough to jar him. "Wake up, Arthur. We've got to get warm."

Arthur's mouth opens as though he might speak, but nothing comes out. Merlin bites his own lip as hard as he can, using the shock as momentum. Before the jolt of it wears off, he is dismounted and stopping Arthur's horse with a pull on the reins. He helps Arthur down, a dead weight that nearly topples him.

"Come on," he says softly, his nose cold against Arthur's even colder cheek as Arthur leans against him, nearly senseless. "We've got to walk about a bit, sire. You're going all numb, and that's not good."

They walk in a small, pained circle, each step a trial. After a few minutes, Merlin rubbing the feeling back into Arthur's face with his numb fingers, Arthur slowly regains the ability to walk unaided. Merlin instructs him to keep moving and squats down to start a fire, his knees protesting.

Fortunately Arthur is completely oblivious, as Merlin never would have been able to start a fire over the sheet of ice on the ground without magic. With its aid he does manage it, though, and he also risks a very subtle heating spell on Arthur once he's close enough to believe it's just the influence of the fire. "Come here," he says and Arthur does, looking vaguely bewildered about the situation. Merlin pulls him down beside him, on the magically thawed ground, and holds Arthur's much larger hands between his own. Merlin's fingers are completely numb, yet he can still somehow feel the strength of Arthur's calloused hands, the slide of knuckle and palm against his own. "Stay awake," he instructs, and Arthur nods shortly and draws closer, his thigh flush against Merlin's.

After that, Merlin maintains a heating spell over Arthur. It doesn't have a wide radius, but sometimes if he rides close enough that his legs brush Arthur's he can feel the edges of it, just a bit sweeter, just a bit softer than the harsh air that surrounds him. Arthur doesn't seem in danger of losing consciousness anymore, and his posture has improved somewhat. It's a slow burn of Merlin's power, but he doesn't think it will sap him of enough to prevent him from helping if the impending skirmish doesn't go in Arthur's favor.

They come upon the bandit camp in the early dusk. They've clearly been in the same place for some time, for they've assembled a large tent of skins and furs, treated to keep out the wind and wet. Their large fire-pit is well tended, and neatly chopped firewood is stacked high beside it, covered with a blemished skin. It's unclear how many people are staying here, but Arthur doesn't look concerned. Then again, maybe that's just the frostbite impairing the usually expressive nature of his features.

"Stay here," Arthur says shortly, through barely parted lips.

"Like hell," Merlin answers, and they dismount without another word. At least Arthur isn't challenging him.

Merlin does let Arthur creep into the camp ahead of him. He isn't of much use in stealth situations, and he can work his magic most effectively if Arthur can't see him. He steps after him, cautiously, careful to use Arthur's neat, precise tracks so as not to fall through the snow in any new place.

There are two voices coming from the tent, both male. Merlin can't make out much, but he knows the accent, thick and guttural and heavy. They're Picts. He glances over at Arthur, but he's clearly already registered this and probably a lot more that Merlin hasn't. He wonders idly if Arthur can understand any of their language, but that's a question for another time, and Arthur is stepping around him and stopping close enough to brush his lips against Merlin's ear to whisper, "It's them. Once I meet their eyes I'll know for sure, and then I'm going to kill them. Take care, I only hear two, but there could be others."

Merlin nods, but doesn't tilt his head up in the awkward way he'd have to in order to reply. Arthur doesn't wait for any response, anyway, just slips in through the flap of the tent so silently that the Picts' conversation doesn't even falter until a good five or ten seconds later. By that point, it's apparently too late, and Merlin hears a sickening noise that can only be a deathblow, followed shortly by a second. The bandits must have been unarmed, to put up so little of a fight.

Arthur reemerges, wiping his face upon his sleeve. His eyes are wide, unfocused, and he clasps his unsheathed sword in a red-knuckled grip. "It's still warm," he says in a funny voice, hoarse with disuse, and he's looking down at the spatter of red on the cuff of his tunic where he's drawn it over his face. It looks strange, deep and ugly, already crusting over the pale blue weave. He lurches forward and into Merlin's arms, and Merlin hates Uther again, fiercely, as he whispers nonsense into Arthur's ear and tries to stroke a bit of warmth back into his shoulders and over his back. Arthur doesn't cry, but he might if he were any other man.

They stay like that for a long time, rocking back and forth until it becomes almost hypnotic. Finally, Merlin presses his hand to Arthur's nape and tangles his fingers in his hair, using the leverage to gently draw his face up and out of the crook of Merlin's neck. "I'm going to light a fire, all right?"

Arthur nods, and moves woodenly toward the fire pit. He veers at the last moment, moves farther away and retches, then returns, looking almost sheepish. Merlin manages to light the kindling, and after the fire has begun to burn bright, he holds a water skin over it long enough to melt a bit of the water inside it, then passes it off to Arthur so that he might rinse his mouth. He does.

Merlin unpacks the food and the bedrolls. "I know you don't want to sleep here," he says quietly, "But let's just get as warm as possible before we ride again, and eat something. We'll be back home soon."

Arthur nods dumbly and allows both bedrolls to be wrapped around the two of them. Merlin moves closer still, to break off bites of bread and meat and press them against Arthur's lips until he eats them, his tongue cold and slick against Merlin's fingers.

"I know it's awful," Merlin says softly, as he coaxes Arthur's lips apart for a bit of fruit. "It's completely awful, but those men were killers, and they would have killed again and again. You had to protect your people."

"I thought it'd be a real fight," Arthur says quietly, after he's eaten a little. "It was so-" He hesitates. "So dishonourable. They were just sitting there, just talking. I don't even know if they tried to say anything to me."

"I know," Merlin says soothingly, although he doesn't, and he's confused and angry too. "I know you did the right thing."

They rode for almost two days to get here, so Merlin knows that they can't make it back to Camelot without stopping for rest. Yet in this weather and with Arthur so unresponsive, Merlin fears that if they stop to rest they won't wake up again. He leaves Arthur by the fire for a moment and confers with the horses in a whisper. By the end of it, their shoes are enchanted, and he hopes it's enough to have them home before dawn. He bundles Arthur onto his horse and whispers that they'll be back home soon.

The horses move so quickly that it feels almost like flying. Merlin is terrified that Arthur will notice, but he seems hardly conscious of the world around him.

It's quite late at night by the time they reach Camelot, but they get there, and for once Merlin doesn't feel guilty for using his rank to make the stable boys tend to the horses so that he may tend to Arthur.

They stumble through the gates together, and though it's still chill inside, the absence of the wind makes a vast difference. Merlin doesn't waste any time in hustling Arthur up to his room and lighting the fire, then manhandling Arthur under coverlets so cold that he hisses when his body first comes in contact with them. Merlin doesn't bother to undress him, as the extra layers will help keep him warm.

"I'll be back in a moment," he murmurs and then leaves at a brisk clip for the kitchens. Sometimes Cook keeps a pot on through the night, softening bones and gristle into stock for later sauces and gravies.

"I need something hot for Arthur," he tells her breathlessly, and though personal tales of woe do not generally sway her, Cook's face softens at his voice, and she dishes up a large bowl of hot stew.

"That oughter leave enough for you, too," she says kindly, and finds a skin of wine to press into his free hand. "Warms yer bones, it does."

When Merlin steps back into Arthur's chambers, he thinks at first that Arthur has fallen asleep, but his eyes flicker open at Merlin's approach. He looks pale against the coverlets, his skin rubbed raw from the wind. The room looks dull and dark, no match for Arthur.

"Food?" he asks. He sounds as though he hasn't spoken for weeks.

"Food," Merlin replies, and climbs onto the bed from the side that Arthur isn't occupying, balancing the bowl as he crosses his legs in a sitting position.

"Come under," Arthur says. "Warmer."

He can't argue with that, has no desire to. He's bone tired, and cold too, so Merlin say nothing, just wriggles about until his legs are under the coverlets and moves closer until their sides are aligned. "Here," he says, and places the bowl down over his thighs. "Eat."

Arthur just looks tiredly at him until Merlin stirs the soup encouragingly. His eyes flicker at this, and Merlin takes this as a request and feeds Arthur the stew, one spoonful at a time.

"You have some too," Arthur manages. After that they alternate spoonfuls.

When they finish eating, Merlin tries to get up and rinse out the bowl, but Arthur clutches at his hand. "No," he says quietly. "Can you stay here?"

Merlin looks down into his face for a moment, at the open vulnerability that he realises Arthur's revealed, and it's not even a question. "Of course," he says quietly, and reaches for the tie of his neckerchief.

Arthur goes stiff and nervous, as Merlin burrows under the covers to remove his boots without exposing either of them to the cold.

"It's not an order," Arthur says, in the closest to a frightened voice Merlin thinks he's ever heard come from him.

"I know, he says soothingly, working loose the ties at first on his own, then Arthur's neck. "I know." It's almost frightening how willing Merlin is to do this, how glad he is that it's something Arthur is requesting, not demanding. He's too tired to think about that, though. It's far too big a thought to even consider.

After he's finished, Merlin tucks himself into the curve of Arthur's body, his back slotted closely against Arthur's chest. Arthur sighs slowly against his neck, and then draws his arms around Merlin at waist and chest, pulling him closer still. He likes to feel as though he can protect someone, Merlin thinks, and realises that he's all right with being protected like this. For once he is just warm enough.

He tracks the progress of Arthur's breath as it gradually slows at the nape of his neck, and finally, Merlin sleeps too.

In the morning Merlin awakes to the feeling of Arthur's solid warmth wrapped heavily about him. This sensation of being held close and tight by someone so much larger and stronger than himself is new, but Merlin likes it. _This is how a king behaves_ , Merlin thinks. _He wraps himself right around his people and keeps them safe and warm. He wraps himself right around me_. Though he doesn't know why Arthur would choose him above everyone else in Camelot, it conjures up a lump in his throat.

He slips out of bed early, before Arthur wakes. There are still the usual chores to perform, and Arthur probably won't react well to being treated like an invalid, now that he seems to be recovering. He'll probably have an audience with the King today, and for that he'll need a bath, fresh clothes, and some sort of very sustaining meal. Merlin fetches all the implements for these things, then stops at Gaius's chambers and asks him to prepare a soothing poultice for Arthur's face and hands, which are rubbed dry and raw from the frostbite.

"Merlin," Gaius says, and though the tone is mild and he is old, bent heavily over his work, Merlin feels as though he's been rooted to the spot with the force of it. It's in moments like these when Merlin thinks of how Gaius must once have been, young and straight of back; a warlock in his own right. Gaius saves his fierce pride for Merlin now, but once when he was young, it must have been his own, a pride for his magic and his intellect and probably a lot of other things that Merlin will never know. The feeling only lasts for a moment, and then it's just old, patient Gaius.

"Pass me the comfrey," Gaius says, and Merlin reaches for it, bundled up on a high shelf. He hands it to Gaius, then sets about gathering more ingredients; rue from the windowsill, centaury and spearmint from the shelves on the far wall. He fetches chamomile to soothe, too, and a bottle of laurel oil to bind it all together. This sort of work is calming, finely chopping up the herbs with a small, sharp knife, crushing the dried bits within a mortar. The mint sends up a clean, pungent odor that fills his nostrils until all he can think about is the satisfying grate of the stone pestle.

"How is Arthur?" Gaius asks, as he transfers the mixture into a squat, wide-necked jar. "He and the King were at odds before you left."

"I don't know," Merlin says softly. "Better, I think. He'll get better."

"These things have a way of repeating themselves," Gaius says. Once more Merlin wants to say, _tell me what happened to you all those years ago. Have you ever told anyone at all?_

He takes the poultice and returns to Arthur, instead.

Arthur is already awake when he arrives, already sitting up straight on the side of the bed. The laces of his tunic are pulled straight, and his hands are clasped neatly in his lap as he stares over at the dark glass of the window.

"Morning, sire," Merlin says brightly, and sets a breakfast tray upon the table. "Here's a salve for your face, Gaius said you might want it. You can use it on your hands, too. I'll just leave it here and be back in a moment with your bath water."

"Yes," Arthur says politely and looks down at his hands. "Thank you."

Merlin's skin is tender and raw against the morning air. He stops to collect Gwen, who sometimes waits with him for her new charge's bathwater, and together they hoist up the bucket, Merlin's neckerchief wrapped around the cold metal of the handle. "You first," he says kindly, and follows soon behind.

Back inside, he fills Arthur's bath and strips him down quickly, ushering him into the water. Once there, Merlin sets out a length of cloth and a set of clean clothes, then stokes the fire.

"Leave me," Arthur says quietly, once this is done.

"You don't want help with your lacings?" Merlin asks. "They're tricky."

"I know how to dress myself, Merlin," Arthur answers, but there's none of his usual bite in it. He just sounds tired.

"Of course you do," Merlin says. Just as he's about to close the door, he adds "I'll just check back in before you see your father this afternoon, shall I?"   
Arthur doesn't say no.

**

Merlin stays close and quiet beside Arthur as he leaves his chambers and straightens fractionally, pale but solid. They're quiet but for the brush of Arthur's sleeves against his sides and the click of their boots upon the flagstones. Merlin's steps are aligned with Arthur's, and their knuckles are barely brushing as they walk. Before they enter the throne room, Merlin places his hand briefly upon Arthur's shoulder, and then steps back to let him enter. He follows just after, bowing his head and taking his place behind the rest of the court.

"My king," Arthur says smoothly, and kneels before Uther's throne in a single, fluid motion. He's painfully beautiful like this, his hair like fine silk thread and the lines of his neck and extended flank long, sinuous, and effortlessly graceful.

"Arthur," his father says coolly. "How fared you? Did you eradicate the bandits?"

"I did, sire," Arthur replies. His voice rings out strong and clear, though his face is still parallel to the ground. "Two men remained, and I killed them both. Have I regained your honour, my lord?"

"Stand," Uther says. Merlin sucks in a breath as Arthur does, cheeks flushed and shoulders arched up strong and proud and magnificent. They both know that Uther is about to forgive him.

"A man's life was lost due to your carelessness," Uther intones. "This cannot be undone. However, your actions have repaired the damage to Camelot's honour. Return to your duties now, and attend me at the evening meal."

"Sire," Arthur says, and his face is finally clear. He turns and sweeps out of the room, and Merlin trots out behind him. Outside of the throne room, their gait slows, and now Arthur is almost grinning. "I've got training," he says, almost cheerfully. "Serve me at the dinner table, tonight."

Back to normal, then. Merlin says "Yes, sire," and ducks his head a little, and Arthur strides off toward the armory. Merlin hasn't any chores left, and after last night he doesn't think he'll be bribing the cooks any time soon, so he retreats to Gaius's chambers and practices changing the temperature of the room. It saps too much of his energy to work for long, and it won't hold if he falls asleep, but thanks to the last few days, he knows several situations in which such magic could be useful, and so he sets to mastering it completely.

**

Dinner is roasted fowl, and Merlin wonders longingly where the kitchen managed to find such a thing, with the supplies as low as they are. He stands at Arthur's left side throughout the meal, pouring wine and training his gaze upon the floor.

Uther's in far better spirits, and he speaks expansively about local disputes he's broken up, and scouting reports and the like. Arthur is carefully courteous throughout, but Merlin can see how happy he is to be back in his father's good graces. Though Merlin is glad to see him so animated, it's troubling that he could become this way so quickly, when no more than a day before he was broken and weeping. This is an unsettling line of reasoning, so Merlin forces himself to concentrate on Arthur's wine.

"We must find my ward," Uther says then, after a lull in the conversation. It's almost nonchalant, which is worlds away from how he'd talked about it at first.

Arthur nods and pushes his game hen back and forth on its platter. "I'll ride out after her, if you think I can help." He'd gone out with the first wave of trackers, of course, but he'd been recalled to other duties once that had proven unsuccessful.

Uther nods, slowly. "I believe it may come to that. Few of my men ride so well as you, and I need to send out a better tracker before we lose any hope of finding a trail."

Arthur nods into his cup. "I could be ready to ride out tomorrow."

"Not just yet," Uther says, "but soon."

"Sire," Arthur says, and they lapse into silence for a long time, disturbed only by the clink of Uther's knife against the platter.

"You've hardly touched that," Uther says finally, gesturing at Arthur's full plate. "What's wrong with it?"

Arthur glances up at him. "Nothing, I just had too much of the last course. You know I'm fond of leeks."

That isn't true at all, and Merlin is perplexed by it. Why lie?

Uther doesn't seem to notice anything unusual though. "Well enough." He raises an arm, reaching for the bell pull that will alert the kitchen staff, but Arthur catches his arm.

"No," he says, surprisingly forcefully. "Merlin will take our plates."

He turns to Merlin, but doesn't quite meet his eyes. "See that these are cleared," he says gruffly, and Merlin knows that he and Gaius will eat better tonight than they have in weeks. Merlin can't quite identify the way it makes him feel, but it's something good, something warm that blooms up inside his chest at Arthur's stupid, ridiculous kindness.

"Ready my riding clothes," Arthur says that night, after he's already tucked into bed.

Merlin leaves off folding Arthur's discarded breeches. "Why?"

"What do you mean, why?" Arthur asks, all bluster. He props himself up on his elbows. "Because I said you ought to."

"Of course, Sire," Merlin says, exasperated. "But in case you've forgotten, we were out riding yesterday, and that didn't exactly end well."

Arthur leans back against his pillow, staring up at the bed hangings. "You heard my father," he says, and his voice isn't as reprimanding as it probably should be. "The trail will be lost if we have another snowfall, and then what hope do we have of finding Morgana?"

 _You have me_ , Merlin thinks, and says, "Your father said not to," lamely.

"He'll be pleased at my initiative," Arthur says briskly, and there's really no arguing with that.

"Your brown boots or the black ones?" Merlin asks.

"The black ones," Arthur replies. Merlin looks away from the empty side of the bed as Arthur turns his face into his pillow and says, "Pull those drapes a little closer before you go. I feel a chill slipping in."

The trouble with pillows, Merlin thinks, back in his own bed, is that while you can hold them, you can't quite make them hold you.

**

In the morning, Arthur rides out with a small company of knights. Merlin wants to go along, but the soiled rushes must be cleared from the throne room and the great hall today, to be replaced with fresh ones, so he spends the day working alongside Gwen. It's hard to concentrate, occupied as he is with worrying about Arthur getting stuck in a snowdrift or stepping in a snake hole or losing his way and dying of starvation or something. He hates when Arthur goes somewhere without him.

"How is he," Gwen asks softly, reading his thoughts just as easily as usual. _Dear Gwen_ , he thinks. _Always so kind._

"His usual way," Merlin answers, because how can he begin to say _I'm terrified, and his jaw is so perfect and his skin is nice even though he's got loads of scars, and I wish I could take away his nightmares, and I really hate when you look at him like that,_ because Gwen has never begrudged Merlin anything, and he has repaid her in lies and sorrow.

Gwen just nods at this, and smiles faintly. "Lady Blodwen's nice," she says in her diplomatic way. "Much older. I never know if I'm allowed to talk or anything."

"Then you shall have to talk to me to make up for it," Merlin says. "Tell me everything."

At dinner, Uther remarks upon Arthur's dedication to his duties, and Arthur smiles into his plate of stewed rabbit. Uther's face is mild.

"You seem happy," Merlin says later, while waving a dust rag half-heartedly at Arthur's cupboard.

"We made progress today," Arthur replies, folding his hands behind his head and stretching luxuriously. "Are you even trying over there? It looks worse than when you started."

Merlin steadfastly ignores the slide of Arthur's shirt. "Look closer," he says earnestly. "It's much better from here, I swear."

"Hmm," Arthur says, but he's no longer gazing at the cupboard. "Look at your hands. It's no wonder you can't do your work properly. Those chilblains are awful. You look like something gnawed on you. Use some of Gaius's salve before you go," he finishes mildly, and before Merlin can think of a response, he adds, "Lay out the blue surcoat. I'm staying here, tomorrow."

**

It takes Merlin a long time to fall asleep, that night, and he awakens far too soon to a voice whispering his name.

His first instinct is to think it's Gaius, as Gaius is sadly the only person who ever turns up in his room, but as he wakes completely, he realises that that isn't the case. He rolls over.

Morgause is there, tall and confident in men's breeches and a white linen shirt. Her hair is long and loose about her, and she stands with her hands clasped over her middle, looking capable and relaxed. Merlin fires off a quick binding spell at her, but it passes right through her and she laughs, a surprisingly deep, full chuckle. "I'm not entirely here, of course," she says. "That would be far too easy." The room feels too close, her presence so imposing that it seems to fill up the small space entirely, the stone of the walls a dark backdrop to her pale, flickering hair.

"Care to tell me where you are?" Merlin asks. He sits up and rubs at his sleep-blurred eyes.

Morgause laughs again, but this time the pleasure is gone from it. "No, I don't think I shall."

"Oh," he says stupidly, still groggy. "How's Morgana?"

"Alive," Morgause says sharply, and her face closes off a little, tight with a tired sort of anger. "No thanks to you."

He's suddenly a very different kind of tired. "I didn't want to," he says flatly. "But Arthur comes first."

Morgause quirks her brow a little, but doesn't comment on that. "And Uther?"

"It would destroy Arthur if he died," Merlin says. "He'd be sure it was his fault."

"Ah well," says Morgause and she comes to half sit, half hover beside Merlin. "I can't fault you for protecting the one you love." Her anger seems to be fading.

"It's not _like_ that," Merlin says, ducking his head.

"You'd like it to be," Morgause says quietly, and Merlin stares at his lap.

"I don't want to hurt Arthur," Morgause adds. "Or Gaius or Gwen. Or you." She glances over at him. "We have a great deal in common. You could be magnificent, if you were allowed to use your gift freely." She runs a hand through her hair abruptly, and the rough impatience of the gesture reminds him of Arthur.

"People are always telling me that," he says, and straightens up to look at her. "Why are you here?"

"For Morgana," she says, and puts up a hand at Merlin's noise of protest. "Please listen, first. It isn't her fault, not any of it. I was trying to protect her, and I used her just as Uther did. I lied to her and made her frightened and unhappy, when I could have told her the truth and prevented a great deal of suffering." She smiles, but there's a sad tilt to her mouth. "Sometimes you truly believe you're helping someone. The nice things always backfire, and the awful things are always the only things you can do. Anyway, she's not to blame in the least. Unless you count being terrified that Uther's going to kill her. You of all people should know better than to cast blame based on that."

"Yes but I didn't try to kill Uther," Merlin says. "I didn't conspire against him."

"Ah, but you have so much that Morgana was never given," Morgause replies, and he knows he deserves the faint note of derision in it. "You had Gaius to praise you and call you special, books to read, and a dragon to whisper tales in your ear. You're allowed to wander off and practise on your own. I imagine you've grown rather accustomed to that. She hasn't any of that, and even her _friend_ , who knows just how she suffers, could not tell her that she wasn't evil." She sighs resignedly. "She thought there was something wrong inside of her. People let her think that for all of her life. Is it any wonder she wanted to find something better?"

"I'm sorry," Merlin mutters. He knows it's nowhere near enough yet but Morgause nods as though he's forgiven.

"I didn't come to scold you," she says, and pushes herself up farther onto the bed, crossing her legs beneath her.

"Why _did_ you come?" he asks and turns to mirror her pose.

"It's Mordred," she says quietly. "I thought to take Morgana somewhere safe, somewhere where she could rest and heal and not feel as though she was hunted. I did this, but the moment she was healed she started clamouring about Mordred until I agreed to find him and bring him under my protection."

Merlin can't help the faint shudder that passes through him. He hasn't seen Mordred since he came after the crystal, and Merlin still wakes some mornings with his warning ringing in his ears. _I shall never forgive this, Emrys. I shall never forget_. It comes with the memory of the two knights Mordred killed without a thought as Merlin stood before them.

Morgause seems to notice his discomfort. "There's something off about him," she says darkly. "I don't like it."

"What do you mean, off?" he asks and reaches for his blanket to wrap it around his shoulders.

Morgause doesn't move, but the blanket slips easily away from where she appears to be perched. "He whispers things to Morgana. Enchantments, I fear, but I can never quite catch him at it. She acts strangely when she's around him, and her visions are worse. There's something not right about them, after she's been near him. They go all dark and ugly."

"Wasn't she always afraid of the dreams?" he asks.

Morgause laughs, the worry lines etched into her forehead softening momentarily. "Only because she didn't know why she had them, and felt that she shouldn't. The dreams themselves, they're sometimes bad, sometimes good. They're often mundane, now that she doesn't fear them."

"But…?" Merlin prods gently.

"But now that Mordred's around, they're always awful. You die in most of them." She looks straight at him. "Or Arthur."

"They don't have to come true," Merlin says, despite the leap in his pulse, and he can hear Gaius in his head telling him just that.

"No," Morgause says. "But they're making her act strangely, and I do think it's Mordred's fault."

"Well," Merlin replies, "What could I possibly do about it, now?"

"I don't know," she says, and her brow is furrowed again. "I'm just worried. I wanted to be sure I wasn't imagining it."

"I cannot say," Merlin says quietly, because he won't callously order someone's death ever again, not now that he has held a poisoned friend in his arms and known the blame of it.

"Thank you," she says anyway, and stands. "I should go."

"Wait," Merlin says, and his heart is fast and heavy in his chest. "Tell Morgana- tell her I'm sorry."

"I will," Morgause says, and fades away until there's nothing in the room but slowly moving shadows. Merlin stays sitting, hunched in on himself and staring at the wall for a long time.

In the morning, Arthur is unusually pliant. He hasn't anywhere to be until an afternoon conference with Uther. When Merlin bustles in, clapping his hands and shivering, he is still lounging in bed, his tunic loose and twisted about his shoulders.

"Oh go on," Arthur says magnanimously, "Warm yourself by the fire. I've called for a bath already."

Merlin crosses the room to sprawl by the fire, turning his face away where the blaze is just a bit too hot. "I'm not late, am I?" he asks, arching his back toward the fireplace.

Arthur looks over at him through his lashes, eyes half closed. "No, no later than usual."

"Oh." He briefly falters. "It's just, the fire was already lit, and usually you send me for your bathwater." It comes off sounding almost petulant, and he winces and trains his gaze firmly upon the wall next to Arthur's head.

Arthur inhales sharply, as though he might laugh, then apparently thinks better of it. "I woke up early," he says easily.

"You can always call for me if you wake early," Merlin replies.

Arthur does laugh this time and says, "You've never given me that impression before."

"Well," Merlin says stubbornly, "Here it is now."

Arthur just smiles and waves his hand lazily at him. "Let's not do anything until there's bathwater," he says, and Merlin obligingly curls up on the hearthrug.

Merlin dozes for a time, and when he wakes the bathwater has arrived and Arthur is watching him with a faintly indulgent look. "I was wondering if you'd sleep all day," Arthur says, but his tone is teasing.

"No, no," Merlin says, embarrassed. "Do you want your breakfast now?"

"Yes," Arthur says. "Fruit if there's any left. But attend me at my bath first."

Merlin ends up doing both at once, handing Arthur bits of fruit and bread while he lounges in the water and is unpleasantly glorious.

"Fetch me something to drink, will you?" Arthur says, and shifts with a contented groan. Merlin's eyes snap guiltily away from the line of his shoulders, and he rises to fetch a cup.

After he is bathed and dressed, Arthur is still dreamily cheerful about his audience with the king. "He wants my help," is all he'll say about it when Merlin asks, and then, "Fix this lacing, Merlin, it feels crooked."

The conference lasts most of the day. Merlin spends his time serving plates of cold meat and bread and filling water goblets, and occasionally he is called to spread out a new ream of parchment or fetch a map from the archives. The conference is held in the king's private audience chamber, just Arthur and his father, except when they call in a knight or guard to confirm some detail of weather or fortifications or fresh tracks. The rest of the day is spent hunched over an enormous map of Camelot and the surrounding kingdoms. It's a small space, full of light that streams in to catch on the dust motes twirling off the rolled up maps. It's a space that always makes Merlin feel lethargic, the sort of place that looks warm and sunny even when it's actually very cold, but it doesn't seem to have any such effect on Arthur or his father.

Merlin isn't entirely sure that looking for tracks is of any use, for were he Morgause, he would have made his escape entirely through the use of magic. However, Gaius believes that Morgause's power was so drained by awakening the Knights of Medhir that she didn't make it far before abandoning magic in favor of a swift horse. Accounts of a pair of women sharing a horse passing through the first village beyond the castle support this story. However, the trail stops there, and no one has been able to recover it.

Merlin can't decide whether he wants there to be a trail or not. His conversation with Morgause still rings in his ears, and his stomach lurches unpleasantly each time Arthur or his father places a new mark on the map. They're eerily efficient, locating places where Morgause could safely hide, where magic is legal and Camelot is not well loved, or places that are remote enough to let newcomers slip through unrecognised. They grid the map into smaller sections, noting these places and adding poorly held borders, areas thick with bandits, and places where the weather has made for particularly unsafe conditions.

The daylight is gone, windows covered over with tapestries and replaced by flickering torches, when Arthur and his father finish their map and move on to assigning a patrol to each area. Arthur's hair is bright in the wavering light, and as he runs a hand through it, rolling his shoulders and stretching in his seat, Merlin is struck by the way his mannerisms mirror Uther's. It seems strange that they would fall so easily in to the same poses, propping their chins upon their hands in that just-so way and frowning in concentration so identically that the same furrow arises between their brows. Merlin doesn't know much about parenting, but it seems as though there almost must be some magic in it, the inheriting of these bodily tendencies without ever consciously knowing it has happened. He spares a moment to wonder if he sits or walks or rubs his nose like his father does, or did. Uther calls for more food and save for a prickling sensation of faint discomfort, the thought is lost.

"Sir Gareth shall take the lower village," Arthur says a little later. "He makes the townspeople feel at ease, and I know his horse is a bit skittish in the deeper snow."

Uther nods and points to another section of the map. "Sir Drystan shall go here, I suppose. There's a great deal of cover in that area, and he's handy with a longbow. He shifts over a bit. "And Sir Rhun, here."

Arthur shakes his head. "Rhun doesn't like water much, and the ice will be thin over the stream just there. Better put him over here, in the fields. He has a sharp eye for tracks, anyway."

"Yes, better put him there," Uther echoes, and Arthur flushes a little and smiles proudly. It makes him look very young.

By the end of their conference, Arthur and his father have assigned all the available knights to a sector of the map. "I'll figure out the most efficient way to cover the rest of the ground," Arthur says, and folds the map carefully. "We'll set out early tomorrow."

He nods in Uther's direction from the doorway. "Come along, Merlin," he says, and Merlin ducks out behind him.

"We set out at sunrise," he says, back in his chambers. He dismisses Merlin as soon as his clothes are laid out for the morning.

**

In the morning, Merlin loads Arthur up with furs and his heaviest leathers. It will make for a slightly heavier seat in the saddle, but Merlin feels it's an acceptable hindrance if it will prevent their last riding experience. With provisions distributed, and the knights all ready to break formation and head for their part of the map grid, the company sets out.

Merlin has the map tucked away in the saddlebags, but Arthur so far hasn't shown any need to use it. They are accompanied by three other knights, Bors, huge and ruddy and curly haired, Gaheris, tall and slim, dark of skin and hair and possessed of one of the most genuine smiles Merlin has ever seen, and Leon, steady and calm as always, honest loyalty evident in his every move. Arthur is quiet and capable around them.

By midday they're in a deep thicket, headed for the western border. Arthur is in the lead, slowing occasionally to look at the path or the underbrush. They haven't seen anything noteworthy yet, but their track has been circuitous.

In the end, Merlin doesn't even have time to think, _Oh dear, an attack_ , much less construct some sort of implausible magical solution. Everything is cold and still, and then it isn't, the air thick with arrows. Gaheris falls forward, a bloody streak upon his side, and Merlin is paralyzed with fear and anger because this is just what happened to Arthur before, what started this madness in the first place.

"Damnit Merlin, get back," Arthur shouts, and Merlin is abruptly released from his trance. He fumbles for Gaheris' reins and urges both of their horses to turn and draw back behind the tree line, kicking up snow as they go.

"How bad?" he cries.

Gaheris straightens, grins wryly, and says, "I'll live, boy." Merlin slumps with relief.

There's little for Merlin to do but watch, after that. Gaheris is quite conscious, and keeps looking worriedly over at Merlin like he's made of glass. Arthur is engaged in combat with a pair of swarthy men, with another man each to Leon and Bors, and a third felled just behind Arthur. They're all still seated on their horses, though, and as their attackers are on foot, the battle doesn't appear to be terribly dire.

Still, it's not at all fair. Merlin would much rather be there in the thick of it, only there's no way he can use magic without being detected, and Arthur forbade him to bring so much as a paring knife. Really, it's almost as though he'd known they'd end up somewhere dangerous and Merlin would want to help and—oh hell. From afar, he watches Arthur strike a clean blow to his remaining assailant. That bastard, he knew they were heading into dangerous territory, and he didn't think Merlin could take care of himself, so he'd made sure to cut Merlin out of the fight completely. Merlin is so full of sudden rage that he barely notices that Arthur and his men are now searching the bodies.

"Picts," Arthur calls out. "We're nearing the border."

Leon rides over and examines Gaheris's side. "Right," he mutters. "Got to get that patched up."

Merlin and Leon dismount and help Gaheris down, and Leon bandages his side with a slow, careful hand. "Thought we'd lost you there for a mo'," Leon says softly, and if his hand lingers a bit too long after helping Gaheris back onto his horse, no one mentions it.

That night, they set up camp in a little glen, tucked back away from the wind. The snow is thinner, with a few blades of brownish grass caught in the layer of crunchy near-ice. There's a lip at the top of the clearing, swooping down into the protected little area where the earth is beaten flat. Arthur is sitting watch at the lip of the camp, and Merlin is huddled beside him, hunched into his jerkin. Bors is snoring heartily away on one side of the fire, Leon and Gaheris on the other side. They're tucked closely together, as they have been ever since the fight that afternoon. Merlin looks back at them for a long time before he turns to Arthur. "Did you know about them?" he asks finally, cupping his hands and blowing on them for warmth.

"Here, share this," Arthur says, and pulls Merlin under the bedroll that's draped over his shoulders. "Course I knew, they don't exactly hide it."

Merlin sighs and stretches ineffectually, sending the bedroll sliding off his shoulders. Arthur makes a very put-upon noise and hauls him closer, slowly tucking the blanket back around him.

"Do you disapprove?" Merlin asks, and there's no judgment in it. He may have been raised in a village where no one cared a whit about lineage, or propriety really, for that matter, but the same can't be said for Arthur.

He needn't have worried. "Don't be daft," Arthur says. "I think it's rather-" he pauses and looks down at Merlin's hands. "I think it's rather sweet." He clears his throat. "Besides, they're both good and loyal knights. Who am I to deny them happiness if it clearly doesn't reflect ill upon their duties? I'm a parent to neither of them."

Merlin raises an eyebrow at that. "Well," Arthur says, and fumbles a little. "They're warriors, it's not like they're expected to marry. More than likely they'd be just asking someone to become a widow. This is- this is better. This way they have someone to care of them. To care for."

They sit in silence, because Merlin can't think of any better response than a smile.   
"Come here, then," Arthur says finally. "You'll alert the Picts with your teeth chattering like that." He doesn't wait for a response, just hauls Merlin into his lap and arranges him so Merlin's cold nose is pressed into the crook of Arthur's neck. Arthur wraps the bedding snugly around both of them and murmurs, "No use freezing," and while one of his hands is splayed over Merlin's back, the other covers Merlin's hands where they are lightly clasped against his stomach.

"Get some sleep," Arthur says, forestalling any discussion of this manoeuvre, and miraculously, Merlin does, lulled by the slow, steady stroke of Arthur's hand up and down his back. Arthur must look as though he's all alone, his broad back facing squarely toward the camp and Merlin's bedroll twisted and lumpy by the fire.

Merlin wakes up in his bedroll without any memory of moving to it (or being moved, as is far more likely). Bors is already up, tending to the fire, and as everyone else begins to stir, they thaw water over the fire, tend to the horses, and set out a bit of breakfast to eat before setting off.

Over the next few days, they encounter three hostile scouting parties, five treacherous beds of ice, and a pack of bandits. Merlin is slowly coming to the realisation that Arthur has chosen a route encompassing all the most dangerous parts of the kingdom. What's worse is that he can't call attention to this in front of the other knights, and Arthur has taken to grinning triumphantly at him after each new pitfall.

Morgause shows up late one night, when everyone else is asleep. It's a more secluded area than their last camp, and Bors is dozing lightly at his post. Merlin sighs at the intrusion, but this time Morgause speaks directly into his head, and Merlin finds that he doesn't need to voice his words aloud, either.

 _Having any luck with your search_? Morgause asks innocently.

 _You'd know better than us_ , Merlin replies, adding, _I'll be in loads of trouble if they see you_.

 _They won't_ , Morgause says without hesitation. _I've an enchantment over us. I told you. I didn't mean you any harm_.

 _Right_ , Merlin says and draws his blanket up a little higher about his neck. _Are you here about Morgana again_?

Morgause nods, dropping her chin to rest upon her steepled hands. _Things are worse. Mordred's more powerful than I expected. I fear his influence on Morgana increases with every passing hour. She's half-mad with it. I can't talk with her most of the time, but when she's lucid she tells me she's afraid, that she doesn't know what to do_.

He's sorry for his breezy tone, then, and for a moment he wishes Morgause was really sitting across from him, tempted as he is to reach over and comfort her with a touch. He wraps his arms around his own knees, instead. _You're a powerful sorcerer. You can't do anything about it_?

Morgause smiles a little, sadly. _The mind is a dangerous place. Mordred already has her thoughts jumbled into knots. I fear I'd do more harm than good if I went in and did the same. As for him, that sort of magic is where he's strongest. I can't get into his head at all, and I'm afraid that physically hurting him will ill affect Morgana_.

 _I'm sorry_ , Merlin says. He seems to say this a lot around Morgause. _I don't know what to tell you. You'll have to find a way to separate them_.

Morgause leans forward. _I agree. I've been looking through the old books for some help. Oh-_ She turns toward something that Merlin can't hear. _Morgana's calling for me, I must go_.

 _I don't know what you want from me_ , Merlin says, as her form grows indistinct.

 _Someone to talk to_ , Morgause says, and vanishes with a peal of genuine laughter left hanging in the frozen air.

**

Two days later, they encounter the largest group of raiders yet. Merlin feels mostly useless, although he manages to redirect a few Pictish arrows back at their owners. Bors takes a sloppy knife wound, meant to hamstring him but leaving instead a messy but non-debilitating gash.

"We've got to pull back and tend to him," Leon says, and begins to do just that. The Picts are either dead or, in the case of a last two or three stragglers, escaping into the thick forest where the horses can't follow.

Merlin pulls sharply on his horse's reins, turning back toward the other knights, only to see Arthur launch himself out of his saddle and tear off into the forest after the escaping Picts. Merlin gets tangled up in the reins for a moment, cursing as he slows to free himself, then takes off after him, his chest thick and heavy at the thought of Arthur ambushed in the woods.

The trees are close and solid, forming a cover that lets little light into the forest grove. It could almost be night in here, and Merlin slows for a moment, swearing as he trips over a root hidden in shadow. He begins to topple forward but catches himself, taking off again at a run before his momentum is lost.

He's almost spitted on Arthur's sword when he catches up to him, but Arthur drops his blade to his side with a harsh sigh. He abandons the usual litany of insults to say, "Thank God. I counted only three, and I've already caught all of them."

Merlin opens his mouth to berate Arthur for his recklessness, but confronted with Arthur's tired, open face, the words don't come. Before he can convince himself that it's a terrible idea, he's striding forward to pull Arthur into a close, fierce hug.

Arthur tenses, then relaxes into it, and they stay like that for a long moment, until Merlin clears his throat and releases him. "The others will be wondering," he says quietly, and they walk back to the clearing in silence.

**

 _What is it_? Morgause asks that night, and Merlin is surprised by how easy it is to talk to her.

 _I'm worried about Arthur_ , he says, glancing over at his solid, still form where he sleeps beside the fire. _He's behaving terribly recklessly, and it just keeps getting worse_.

 _He is a grown man_ , Morgause says, _And more wise than most people seem to think_.

 _I'm not most people_ , Merlin says sharply, and she raises her hands in apology.

 _Sorry_ , Merlin says uncomfortably, _I know. But can you blame me wanting to see him safe? For Albion_?

 _For you too_ , Morgause says sagely, and there's no shaming in her tone.

 _Look_ , Merlin says briskly, _If we're not going to find you, I'd really rather not be out here watching Arthur take on an entire barbarian horde. If Morgana's safe with you, couldn't she send a message to Uther saying so? If you trust your defences, he'll never find you, and I doubt he'll even keep trying if he finds out about her magic_.

 _That seems reasonable_ , Morgause says. _I'll talk to her, but I think she'll do it._ Without a pause, she adds _Arthur looks cold. You should go to him_.

She's gone before Merlin can so much as glare at her.

In the morning, they prepare to return to Camelot. Bors is still weak from his injury, and Arthur decides he needs to have the wound properly dressed. They'll leave again after a night's rest, with replenished supplies and fresh knights, although Merlin hopes that this won't be necessary once Morgana sends word.

The journey home is uneventful, except for Merlin catching Leon and Gaheris snogging furiously behind a tree while in search of a private place to cast a heating spell on the dying fire. His smile is wider than he actually knew it could be as he backs away, blushing and apologising furiously for intruding. Leon shares his breakfast rations with Merlin on the following morning, and Arthur watches with a little smile.

Back at the castle, Merlin drags Bors off to have his wound tended to. He runs into Gwen on the way, and stops in his tracks. Gwen is rocking back and forth a little and humming, sweeping the same patch of floor over and over again in front of what he assumes is Lady Blodwen's door. Her face is bright, and she is wearing a lovely, silly smile. Her clothes look as freshly scrubbed as her face, and there are little white flowers in her hair.

"You look happy," Merlin says, acknowledging Bors' patient look with a grateful half-smile.

Gwen flushes and reaches to touch a length of cord that she's wearing as a necklace. A rough-hewn pendant is threaded onto it, and Merlin has never seen it before.

"I'm having a lovely day," Gwen says warmly.

"I'll find you later," Merlin replies, and when he glances back from the end of the hallway, Gwen is still rocking and humming and sweeping.

"That girl's got herself a sweetheart," Bors says matter-of-factly.

"So it would appear," Merlin replies dryly, and his chest feels a little tight.

He finds Gwen in the lower kitchens a little later, still wrinkling his nose at the smell of the salve Gaius said would speed Bors' healing. Gwen is supposedly taking her luncheon, but she hasn't eaten a bit of it, and her gaze is dreamily fixed upon the wall as her fingers flutter idly.

Merlin slips onto the bench beside her, and Gwen looks up, startled out of her reverie.

"I didn't see you," she says ruefully, straightening up and looking down at her food in what appears to be faint confusion.

"Clearly," Merlin says. "Now talk to me. What's happened to you?"

Gwen glances over at him, suddenly flustered. "It's just, Lancelot's returned. He says this time he's here for good." She flushes a little, smiling warmly as she stares down at her plate.

"Oh." Merlin relaxes, filled with an inexplicable relief that he didn't know he'd needed until it happened. "Go on, tell me more. How did this happen?"

Gwen's smile grows. "He showed up here two days ago, and took up lodging above the butcher's shop. He asked if he could come and work for me at the smithy, and I've been looking for someone to help out, anyway. I've started teaching him, and he's quite good."

"And has he said what brought him back?" Merlin asks, although he's certain he already knows.

"Oh." Gwen's cheeks go even warmer. "He says- well, he says he came back for me. He said he'd stayed away before because of Arthur, but he couldn't do it any longer."

"Because of Arthur?" Merlin repeats, leaning a little closer.

"Well," Gwen says again, a little uncomfortably, "He said we seemed very much in love."

"And?" Merlin says carefully. "Are you?"

"Oh," Gwen says, stuttering a little. "He's quite lovely of course, and in theory it all sounds very nice, but I really think we were more in love with the idea of it all, rather than each other. I don't want to be a queen, not really. I like my life, and my home, and neither of us would be happy in the other's way of living. Lancelot makes me feel- well he makes me feel right, like who I am is exactly what he loves about me, not just an obstacle to be fought and conquered. Besides, I'm starting to think Arthur's and my love would have been very-" she coughs. "-chaste. And he clearly has eyes for another, though they're both far too stupid to see it."

"Who?" Merlin demands, his throat suddenly tight.

"Never mind," Gwen says, and her tone is inexplicably exasperated. "Anyway, Lancelot would love to see you. Come have dinner tonight?"

"Of course," Merlin says. "It'll be nice to see him, and I'm very happy for you both, of course."

Gwen gifts him with one of her truly radiant smiles. "Thank you. See you tonight, after we're done serving in the hall."

Merlin replies in the affirmative and then wanders off to help Gaius brew a headache remedy, feeling strangely lighthearted.

**

Morgause holds true to her word. That night, Merlin is standing behind Arthur, watching his goblet and half-listening to him reporting to his father as he shifts on tired feet. Just after the roast is laid out, the candles flicker and die, and Merlin moves subtly closer to Arthur.

Something moves in the dark, then it begins to glow faintly, the light strengthening as Morgana's form flickers into being, floating indistinctly above the feast table. She's clad in rich purple, a slick fabric that ripples like water, and even though she's not truly present in the feast hall, Merlin can still see how much healthier she looks, vibrant and strong.

"Hello Uther," Morgana says softly. "You've been looking for me."

"Morgana," Uther gasps, and goes stiff in his chair. "Where are you? Are you all right?"

"I'm safe," she replies shortly. "Which is more than I can say for the time I spent as your ward. I wish I could show you the singular feeling of spending every day in terror that your king will see your magic and throw you into the flames."

It's amazing how quickly Uther's face goes white and ugly, a complete transformation that happens inside of a moment.

"Oh yes," says Morgana, smirking at Uther's shocked expression. "I've had the magic since I was a child. I've been using it all along, right under your nose. Call off your hound dogs, Uther, only death awaits them. That is, if I choose to let them find me, and as of yet, I won't allow them even that."

With that she smiles, and her hands weave a burning glyph in the air that sets the candles alight as she disappears along with the receding shadows. After a moment of cold silence, the court begins to buzz with whispered discussion, and Uther turns slowly to Arthur. "Call off your search parties," he says coldly, and turns back to his food without another word.

Arthur disappears with his knights at the close of the meal. Merlin considers following them, as Arthur is no doubt shaken by the evening, but Gwen finds him before he can decide, and Merlin doesn't really want to think about his urge to see if Arthur's face has gone blank, the way it does more and more often after his encounters with Uther. He doesn't think it can possibly end well. He follows Gwen out of the castle, instead, and they walk briskly down into the village. Gwen is silent, a little unsteady looking, but she doesn't seem to want to talk about it.

When they arrive, Lancelot is already standing in front of Gwen's home, bearing an enormous load of firewood. He shrugs ruefully at Gwen's raised brow and drags it through the doorway behind them, stacking it neatly by the door. After, he brushes his hands off on his trousers and turns to engulf Merlin in a warm hug.

"You look well," Lancelot says, pulling back to pass a friendly gaze over him. His hands are solid on Merlin's shoulders, and for a moment Merlin's a little breathless with just how well Lancelot looks himself. He's comfortable, content in a way Merlin's never before seen him. His face is creased with laugh lines, and his homespun shirt is pulled taut against the rise of his strong shoulders. Merlin spends a long moment being overwhelmed by the strong, sure presence that is Lancelot, but it passes, leaving him with the softer warmth of seeing a friend after too long.

"Time to eat," Gwen says, adding, "It's just a porridge" in her bashful way, and they both hurry to inform her that there's nothing they'd like better than a good porridge.

"Something happened tonight," Merlin says carefully, and as they eat, they tell Lancelot of the evening's events. Lancelot's thoughtful gaze rests on Merlin, but when he finally speaks, it's directed at Gwen.

"Is it a surprise?" he asks. "Are you all right? I know you two are close."

Gwen's look is soft, and Merlin can't help but smile. The two of them are so attuned to each other; their words are probably for his benefit alone, as they seem perfectly capable of communicating without them.

"I suppose," Gwen says, "It's a bit of a relief, actually. I know she's safe, and probably happier. But I wish I'd been the sort of person she could trust to talk to about it. I would never have told anyone."

"Oh Gwen," Merlin says. "I'm sure she knew that. She probably didn't want to endanger you."

Lancelot's look is a little too understanding, and for a moment Merlin is even more uncomfortable. He doesn't think Lancelot would ever tell anyone about the magic, though, not even Gwen.

After dinner, they convince Gwen to sit down by the fire while they fetch the water for tidying up. Lancelot moves at a casual, unhurried gait, each step a leisurely stretch of his long legs that belies the cold weather. He has a flower tucked into his shirt laces, plucked from Gwen's loose plait, and he looks sated and content. Merlin can't help but comment on it.

"This is the happiest I've seen Gwen in ages," he remarks, glancing over to see Lancelot's lips curve at the mention of her name. "I'm glad you came back," Merlin continues. "You seem happy, too."

Lancelot lets out a quick breath. "I am. I really am. I shouldn't be," he adds, his tone suddenly regretful. "I wanted to become worthy of her before I returned. To prove myself somehow, and be able to provide for her. But she- she doesn't leave me any time to be guilty. I feel so perfectly happy around her. I just want to be near her, always."

"Lancelot," Merlin says chidingly, but can't keep the chuckle out of his voice. "Here, hand me the bucket. First, I don't think you really need to provide for Gwen. She's one of the most competent people I've ever met. Oh, the rope's frozen, could you help?" He steps aside and lets Lancelot draw up the water. "Second, being chivalrous is all very well, but it's of little use if Gwen can't see you doing it. If you intend to fight for her, you owe it to her to be here with her. She deserves that. You can't just proclaim your love and trot off to have adventures and get honour and things."

Lancelot's laugh is bright, echoing in the empty courtyard. "I know," he says. "I'm here for good. I want to marry her. Lugh, the butcher, is letting me assist him in the shop for a bit of extra pay, and once I have enough to make a reasonable offer, I'm going to ask her."

"Oh, Lancelot," Merlin says. It comes out a bit soppily, but he can't bring himself to care. He's always had a bit of a weak head for romance. "That's wonderful."

Lancelot gives one of his funny, formal little nods. "The villagers scout and hunt, and sometimes they even organize for sword training. I can prove my worth at all those things without a pedigree. If Gwen will consent to have me, that's all the honour I need."

"She will," Merlin says solidly, and then they're stepping back into the small, bright house.

Merlin returns to the castle soon after, leaving Gwen to hum little songs and stroke her fingers through Lancelot's hair as he sits beside her chair by the hearth, his head pillowed upon her thigh. It isn't entirely proper, the two of them being alone together at night, but Gwen's new charge is neither important nor interested in her life outside her duties, so it isn't the sort of thing that will be whispered about in the halls, at least not in the way it would if the dalliance involved someone of royal blood. Besides, Lancelot is nothing if not honourable.

When Merlin slips into Arthur's chambers, Arthur is seated at the table, staring into the fire.

"Up with you," Merlin says briskly, and pulls Arthur over to be undressed near the hearth.

"Quite an evening," Merlin says conversationally, laying Arthur's nightshirt out on the warmed hearthstones. He reaches for the laces of Arthur's tunic. "Well?"

Arthur looks down, watching the slow progress of Merlin's hands. "I feel-" he fumbles a little, as though searching for the correct words, then gives up with a frustrated shake of his head. "I'm ashamed," he says finally, his voice resigned.

"Arms up, sire," Merlin says gently, and draws the tunic over his head. He starts on the lacings of the shirt that Arthur wears beneath. It's red, soft and faded with wear, and it looks good on Arthur, the color warm against the glow of his skin that never fades even in the depths of winter. Everything looks good on Arthur, Merlin thinks, and says, "What have you to be ashamed of?"

Arthur sighs, leaning a little into Merlin's touch. His fingertips graze the base of Arthur's neck and just below it as he picks the laces loose.

"Well," Arthur says quietly. "We wasted time and resources on our foolish search, and to no result. Two of my men were wounded, and a second party was set upon by bandits."

"None of that is your fault," Merlin says, reaching for the nightshirt. Arthur's hair catches in the neck of it, tousling and going soft and fuzzy as he pulls it over his head.

"I know," he replies, his voice muffled as he tugs at the hem of the shirt. Merlin helps, straightening it out, then guides him back against the bed and kneels to work on his boots.

"I know," Arthur says again, "but Morgana. She knows I helped Mordred; I wouldn't have turned her in. She could've come home."

Merlin pauses, his hands still clasped around Arthur's ankle. The press of the bone here is smooth against his palm, the sole of Arthur's foot warm and softer than expected.

"But why would she?" he asks, distantly aware that his next words need to be extremely careful. "She found somewhere where she can be herself. Who doesn't want that?"

Merlin can feel Arthur's gaze on the nape of his neck. "Come on," he says, standing up and tugging at the coverlets, turning down the bed. "Get in, it's cold in here."

Arthur obeys, sliding under the blankets and twisting a bit as Merlin draws them up around him. "Merlin," he says softly, "Do you feel as though you can be yourself here?"

Merlin takes a slow breath, reaching to put out the candle. "Sometimes," he says finally. "Goodnight, sire."

"Goodnight," Arthur says thoughtfully, and by the light of the hearth fire, he watches Merlin all the way out the door.

Several days later, a company of knights rides into Camelot. Their leader is strong and ruddy, and bears a water horse upon his standard. He greets Uther respectfully and then slaps his gauntlet down upon the floor.

"I've no quarrel with your highness," the man says pleasantly. "But one of your knights has absconded from my kingdom with my wife. I beg permission to settle my quarrel with him in single combat."

Uther leans forward interestedly. He loves a good fight. "Very well," he says, and the court breathes a collective sigh of relief. Uther has been intolerable ever since Morgana's brief appearance, tense and strained and constantly shouting at servant and knight alike. To be fair, he has been like this ever since the dragon's escape, but recent events seem to have pushed him even further over the edge. Merlin can't exactly blame him; it can't be easy losing one's authority like that. However, Arthur goes paler and unhappier with each barb his father directs at him, and Merlin can't find it in himself to defend Uther for that.

"Who is this man who offends your honour?" Uther asks. "I shall have him brought forward immediately."

"His name is Peredur," the knight says clearly. "And I am known as Eda."

"Your name is known to me," Uther says, sounding pleased. "Eda Great Knee. Named for your strong stance at mace work, if I'm not mistaken."

Eda smiles and ducks his head. "I'm handy with a sword, too. Bit more honourable, that, sire."

"Father," Arthur cuts in. "Peredur's just a boy. He's not even a knight yet, he's hardly begun with his training."

"Apparently he's man enough to steal another man's wife," Uther says. "Thus, he's man enough to take the punishment for it. This is more than fair, Arthur."

Maybe his wife wanted to go, Merlin thinks, watching the exchange from his place just behind Arthur. He can see that Arthur's thinking something similar, but he's apparently too well bred to say anything logical, like maybe we should ask the wife what she thinks of all this. Instead, he stands up, pushes past the courtiers, and snatches up the gauntlet.

"I'll take your challenge," Arthur says. "I'm a better match anyway, and a challenge to my men is a challenge to me."

This promises to be a much more entertaining fight, so Uther and Eda agree.

"Three days hence," Uther says. "We must prepare the tournament grounds."

Merlin lets out a quiet groan, because what that really means is Merlin must go chip ice off the stadium seats and rub salt into the arena floor.

"Come share my table," Uther says, blithely unaware of the servants' looks of dismay. "Tell me news of the East." With that, they are dismissed.

Merlin spends the day on the training pitch, passing Arthur various weapons with his sleeves pulled over his hands. The metal must bite coldly even through the leather of Arthur's gloves, but he never flinches. He hadn't intended to stop, the knights had been running formations on their own, so Arthur's wearing standing back, relaxed into his court clothes, his long coat catching in the occasional gusts of wind. He's never capable of leaving the training alone, much as he insists he is.

"Lancelot's back," Merlin says casually, because Arthur prefers his wounds and the healing of them to be quick and efficient.

Arthur glances over, but doesn't look ruffled. "That's good," he says smoothly. "On what business?"

"Gwen, I think," Merlin says honestly, wincing immediately after. He hadn't meant to be quite so blunt. "So, if you've got a problem with that, I suppose you should go talk to her soon."

Arthur grimaces and easily parries a blow from one of his knights. "Not so wide, Geraint." He turns back to Merlin. "No, he's good for her. I'd be a fool not to see it. I'd be happy to say hello to Lancelot, though. He's a good man." He looks away, annoyance etched into his features. "Rhun, that was just clumsy. Try again." He runs a weary hand through his hair. "We'll stop by after I'm done here. I suppose we'll find him at Gwen's?"

Merlin nods and backs up a little as Arthur roars, "Rhun, you idiot, I'm standing still for god's sake! That was off by a good hand span."

After the knights have slunk off for the day, Peredur appears. He's a spindle-legged teenager, lank of hair and rather pimply. He looks as though Eda could break him into tiny pieces without any real effort.

"I wanted to say thank you, sire," he says, but Arthur brushes it off.

"I want to speak to her," he says shortly.

"Yes sire," the boy says, and gestures at the village. "This way."

"Come on, Merlin," Arthur says, and shrugs out of his coat, tossing it back at him. "Take this. I'm warm from the drills."

Merlin hesitates, but Arthur gestures impatiently. "Go on, wear it. I can see you need it more than I." Merlin obeys at that.

The coat is the warmest thing Merlin has ever worn. It's baggy on him, made for Arthur's rather broader shoulders and long arms, but the length is fine, the soft, supple leather reaching almost to his ankles. The cuffs fall below his wrists, brushing his fingertips, and the collar rests softly against his neck, smelling faintly of Arthur, of horses and leather polish and a faint tang of sweat. Merlin pulls it tight around him and shivers into the warmth.

Eda's wife is housed in a tiny cottage on the outskirts of the village. Inside, it's clean and freshly whitewashed, with a plump, pretty woman is seated by the hearth. She's clad in a simple shift, and she's carding a length of wool. She looks pleasant, although her sunken cheeks indicate a recent loss of weight.

The woman stands at their entrance, bowing her head at them. "My lord."

Arthur nods. "Sit. What's your name?" he asks.

She sits, her fingers picking deftly through the wool. "Margot, sire."

Arthur joins her at the fire, kneeling on his haunches and holding out his hands toward the warmth of the flames. "You are Eda's wife?"

She nods, and her form goes hunched with resignation. "I am," she says. "I suppose you want to know what I'm doing here, so far from his lands."

Arthur nods, and Merlin comes closer to join him by the fire, tucking his limbs into the coat as he sits. Arthur's looking straight ahead, but Merlin still sees his lips quirk as he nears.

"Peredur's my nephew," Margot says. "Eda was a good husband, at first, but as of late he'd grown cruel. His last campaign fared most ill, and he acquired a taste for beating me as a way of soothing his frustrations. My family could do nothing for me, not once I was married, but my nephew witnessed Eda's behaviour firsthand during a recent visit, and he took it upon himself to help me escape. I've been living here ever since. I've always had a touch for weaving, and my rugs fetch a good price at market."

Arthur glances about the room briefly. "I don't doubt your industry," he says. "Though it does not change that you've broken the law in Camelot, as well as your own kingdom."

"Yes," she says. "Please don't blame Peredur, my lord. He only sought to help."

"Yes, that's clear," Arthur says, and stands abruptly. "Come along, Merlin."

He turns back into the room as Merlin scrambles up to join him. "Thank you for your honesty," he says, and sweeps out the door with Merlin close behind him.

Merlin leads the way to Gwen's house, though he knows Arthur hasn't forgotten where it is. When Gwen opens the door, Merlin shoots her an apologetic look. "Arthur wanted to say hello," he says and Gwen recovers remarkably quickly.

"Yes of course," she says. "Come in, sire." She steps back and opens the door more widely, revealing Lancelot pulling off his boots from his seat by the hearth. Her eyebrows shoot upward at Merlin's attire, and he looks helplessly at her, mouthing, "his idea." Gwen doesn't look convinced.

Lancelot stands as Arthur enters, stiffer and more solemn than he'd been on the previous evening. "My liege," he says seriously, and bows his head, looking remarkably knightly even in his bare feet.

Arthur is still for a long, tense moment, looking carefully at Lancelot, but then his features relax into a smile and he strides forward to clasp Lancelot's shoulder. "I'm glad you've finally come to your senses," he says warmly. "You're welcome here."

They spend the evening in pleasant conversation. Lancelot regales them with tales of his travels, fantastic beasts, foreign lands, and various sundry quests. Arthur holds his own by describing his training sessions with the new knights, leaving them all choking with laughter. He's possessed of an easy, good-naturedness that Merlin has never before seen him use around Gwen. It makes Merlin's stomach twist up into strange little knots, watching Arthur's easy charm as he lounges in his chair and illustrates his story with grandiose arm motions.

Something about this feels uncomfortably right, sitting next to Arthur while wrapped up in the leather that smells of him, talking with his friends while pretending not to notice Lancelot's fingers where they're curled around Gwen's elbow. He's not sure what it is about this that is starting to be so obviously appealing, but he can guess, and it's not a comforting line of reasoning. Arthur doesn't seem to notice, though his knee is very close to Merlin's sprawled limbs, brushing against him as he stretches in his seat. It's a whisper of movement, so minute that Merlin would never have noticed if it wasn't Arthur who is looking carefully away from him as he does it.

Arthur leaves first, saying something about his father and food. Merlin rouses himself, standing to follow him, but Arthur presses him back into his seat with a hand placed firmly upon his shoulder. "Stay," he says kindly. "Relax. I don't need you tonight. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

Arthur nods to Gwen and Lancelot, whose chairs have grown mysteriously closer throughout the night. "Thank you, this was lovely," he says, and his voice is open and honest.

"Come again," Gwen says, and her smile is sweet. Lancelot raises a hand to him, the formalities lost over the course of the evening, and just as Arthur steps over the threshold Merlin realises he's still wearing his coat.

"Wait," he calls after him, but Arthur just shakes his head.

"You can return it tomorrow," he says, and is gone before Merlin can protest. He isn't really disappointed, although it's a bit embarrassing, now that they've both called attention to it.

Gwen, who is usually so lovely and discreet, wastes no time in pleasantries before beginning the interrogation. "That was rather pointed," she says, her voice deceptively smooth.

"I've no idea what you mean," Merlin says, though he can already feel his cheeks going red.

Lancelot shifts, slinging his arm around Gwen. "I believe she's referring to Arthur wrapping you up in his clothes."

"Not you too," Merlin says miserably. "You're supposed to be too honourable to taunt me."

"Oh Merlin," Gwen says. "I'm not, really. Only, I'm not sure why Arthur felt he needed to flaunt you at us. It's not like we don't know you."

"What's more," Lancelot adds, "It's not like we haven't always known he's mad over you."

"Stop it," Merlin says uncomfortably. "If I make him mad it's only in the sense of being the worst servant in the history of servants. He's always quick to tell me so."

Gwen laughs, and somehow she can jibe him and still come off as kind. "I'm not saying he knows it, or at least, I doubt he thinks about it in anywhere near a mature way. But the way he was rubbing against you. It was a little obvious."

"He wasn't _rubbing_ , Merlin says indignantly. "There was definitely no rubbing."

"If that makes you feel better," Gwen says, sounding unconvinced. They fall into a silence, but it's a easy one, warm and contented within the tiny cottage.

"Lancelot, walk him home," Gwen says finally. She sounds regretful, as though the idea of Lancelot getting up is a great hardship. "He'll fall into a pigpen in this state, and we wouldn't want him to ruin the prince's favourite coat."

"Oh har har," Merlin says crankily, over their somewhat more genuine laughter. "Take me home, oh honourable one."

"Come on," Lancelot says in his most serious voice. "I'd offer you my coat, but it seems you already have one."

Merlin slams the door on Gwen's choking laugh.

"We don't mean anything by it," Lancelot says, shoving his hands into his pockets as they walk. "We like it, both of us. I've never seen Arthur like that before. He seemed so happy, he kept looking over at you and smiling."

"I didn't notice," Merlin says wretchedly, shuffling through the snow that lines the path.

"That's clear," Lancelot says wryly. "He's a good man, though. Not many people are as good as him."

"I know," Merlin says, so softly that it's almost a whisper. "If only he knew that."

Lancelot looks over at him for a long moment, but chooses not to comment on it. "Gwen would understand if you told her about your powers," he says instead. "But I'd understand if you didn't. Don't feel like there's a right answer to this." He steps around a loose cobblestone. "Or a wrong one."

"Thanks," Merlin says. "I haven't really thought about it yet. There's been no time for it. I'd like to tell her, of course, but I've never told anyone, really. Not even you, you saw on your own."

"Does it bother you that Morgana escaped here and you didn't?" Lancelot asks curiously.

Merlin shakes his head. "No, I could've gone, more than once. I chose to stay."

"Why?" Lancelot asks, a genuine question.

Merlin shrugs. "It's actually a pretty stupid reason."

Lancelot chuckles as he leans in front of Merlin to open the heavy door to the inner castle. "A tow-headed reason, I presume."

"An idiot-headed reason," Merlin replies petulantly, then deflates. "Thanks for the walk, and, you know, everything."

"Of course," Lancelot says, and draws him into a brief hug. "You're my friend."

"Yes well," Merlin says, a little flustered. "I still think you're awful for ganging up on me, but all things considered, I suppose you're all right, too."

"Goodnight," Lancelot says, and his voice rings clearly in the empty corridor.

Merlin falls asleep that night after a meal of cold leftovers, and he's curiously content, still wrapped in Arthur's coat.

In the morning, Merlin wakes early to return the coat to Arthur's wardrobe. Arthur is still asleep, and Merlin feels strangely restless afterward, though logically he ought to be more than usually tired. Without the coat, the chill is quick to return, and he scurries about fetching breakfast and bathwater in an attempt to warm his bones.

This done, he begins an energetic cleaning of Arthur's chambers, stopping only when he catches Arthur watching him bemusedly.

"You should've said you were awake," he says, unaccountably flustered.

"You're captivating," Arthur says, his tone blank, and Merlin reaches over to toss his clothes at him.

"You're such a comedian," he says uncomfortably. "Get up and eat."

Arthur has him on edge all day. Every time Merlin looks over, he catches Arthur looking away, and Arthur's constantly close by him, lifting a solicitous arm to let him walk through the door first, or brushing against him ever so slightly as they share a plate of cold luncheon in his room. Merlin is still prickling from his conversation with Gwen, and no matter what he tries to do to forget, each touch feels as though it's branded upon his skin. He can't shake the memory of Arthur's leg against his knee, or Arthur's coat draped over his shoulders.

In the afternoon, Merlin steals away to the stables in search of a place to think. When Tom the stableman ambles over to ask suspiciously why he's smelling the saddle oil, he realises that he's well and truly fucked.

"I thought it might have gone rancid," Merlin tells Tom innocently, and flees just as Tom launches himself at the tack kits, horror written all over his earnest face.

The truth is, it doesn't smell rancid at all, it smells lovely and oak-y and like Arthur does when he's spent the day riding. Of course, Merlin doesn't mind the way Arthur smells when he has spent the day rolling in the mud with his knights and running laps around the training ground either, although that's not really much consolation now that he thinks about it. He aims an admittedly petulant kick at the courtyard wall, and absolutely refuses to squeak when he stubs his toe.

He storms into Gwen's house a little later, tossing up his arms. "I'm in bloody love with sodding Arthur," he says plaintively. "What the hell do I do?"

"Snog him," Gwen says, just as Lancelot says, "Flowers and dinner."

Gwen leans over the table to swat at Lancelot. " _Flowers_? What's wrong with you? And Merlin brings him dinner every night."

Lancelot looks a little wounded. "I like flowers."

"Of course you do, darling," Gwen says, relenting. "You're so much more well adjusted than Arthur is. Do come in, Merlin, Lancelot made soup."

Merlin shuts the door behind him and slumps down at the table. "There are so many perfectly nice boys I could have fallen for," he says mournfully. "Why does it have to be him?"

"Oh, Merlin," Gwen says, patting his head. Lancelot gets up to fetch him some soup. "You two have been besotted with each other for ages,"

"I hardly think that's true," Merlin says stiffly.

"I think it's true," Lancelot says unhelpfully. "All Arthur ever talks about is you. Well, and hunting. But mostly you."

"And don't forget about the coat," Gwen says. "The coat was an important detail."

"Fine," Merlin says, slurping disconsolately at his soup. "Anyway, it's all well and good if Arthur loves me from afar, but I'd really prefer if he did it from, you know, up close. Maybe he could talk to me about it before he goes off and gets himself killed on his latest adventure."

"Arthur will never talk about it," Gwen says matter-of-factly. "He'd much rather suffer in silence than ever talk about his feelings."

"So what do I do?" Merlin asks, tipping up the soup bowl.

"You're going to have to approach him about it, I suppose," Gwen says musingly.

"But it's not like I know for sure," Merlin says. "For all we know, he's just really bad at being friendly. It could go terribly."

Lancelot leans over, wrapping an arm around Gwen. "That's the chance you take."

"Point taken," Merlin says, and finishes his soup with a little smile.

He serves dinner for Arthur and his father that night. Arthur is polite to him, but his curiously affectionate behaviour seems to have dissipated. Arthur catches him afterward, wrapping a hand around Merlin's forearm. "Wake me up a little early for the fight tomorrow," he says, and releases him. He slips away before Merlin can ask if he needs anything else.

On the following morning, Merlin wakes Arthur with his preferred pre-fight breakfast. It's mostly light foods, with a bit of meat for sustaining his energy. Arthur is quiet, a little pale in the wan light.

"Are you well?" Merlin asks, holding out Arthur's breeches.

"Quite," Arthur says. He finishes dressing. By Eda's specifications, they'll fight without chainmail. This is an advantage for Arthur, who as the smaller, lighter man will need to depend upon his speed.. He's a skilled warrior, but Eda is too, and Arthur will undoubtedly play to this weakness. Still, it's nerve wracking, the feeling that Arthur isn't quite dressed.

After he has eaten, Arthur stands up, looking a little uncomfortable. "I have something for you," he says, stepping behind the changing screen.

"Chores on a tournament day?" Merlin says, a little miffed. "I thought I'd be there with you."

Arthur chuckles. "Not chores," he says, and steps out from behind the screen, bearing a long, dark coat in his arms. He holds it up by the shoulders.

It's magnificent, the leather so dark it's nearly black, and soft-looking even from across the room. It's cut very similarly to Arthur's, although where his is slit up the back for mobility, Merlin's is closed and full.

Arthur's face looks unusually open, and he glances anxiously over at Merlin, asking, "Well, do you like it?"

Merlin crosses the room then, staring at the coat in disbelief. "Is this a joke?"

"No!" Arthur chokes out uncomfortably. "It's just, you've been cold, and the tailor already had your numbers from when I had your livery made. I just thought-" he trails off, looking mortified. "I just thought you might like it."

"Oh _Arthur_ ," Merlin says wonderingly. "Nobody's ever given me anything like this. It's absolutely brilliant." He can't help but reach out, the leather unbelievably soft against his knuckles.

"Oh," Arthur says. "Good." He steps forward, saying, "Put it on," and helps Merlin into it. He leans to adjust the lapels, and his open, wondering gaze is rather similar to the one that Merlin thinks he himself is probably wearing.

The coat fits beautifully, and Merlin says as much, trying to show how much he likes it through tone and facial expression. He can't quite find the words to convey the sentiment, but Arthur seems to understand, anyway.

"Now I want something of you," Arthur says gruffly.

"Of course," Merlin replies. "Anything."

Arthur steps a little closer, lifting his arms up onto Merlin's shoulders and around his neck. Merlin's pulse goes rapid, and for a moment they just stand there, looking guardedly at one another. Then Arthur finds the knots of Merlin's blue neckerchief and unties it with deft fingers, loosing it gently from around Merlin's neck.

Arthur steps back a half pace, unfolding the square of cloth. Reaching for his table knife, he starts a tear in the fabric, using it to cleanly rip off a length of cloth. "A favour," he says awkwardly, holding out his arm.

Merlin wraps the band around his upper arm, tying it snugly, but not so tightly that it'll affect the flow of blood.

"Time to go," Arthur says a little shakily, and Merlin sees him tuck the rest of the ripped neckerchief into his shirt as he steps out the door.

The tournament ground is nearly full, despite the weather. Fights in which Arthur is personally invested are always by far the most entertaining, and as beaten down as everyone is by Uther and the harsh winter, a little bit of entertainment is a much-needed distraction.

Arthur is resplendent in Camelot red, his tunic closely hugging the sleek muscle and sinew of his strong shoulders. His cheeks are a bit flushed, but otherwise he shows no concession to the weather. He looks every inch a prince, tall and proud and unbelievably confident. Merlin manages to slip into the front row of the peasant benches without ever looking away from the somewhat hypnotising line of Arthur's neck. He seats himself next to Gwen, remaining entranced until Lancelot leans over her to wave hello.

Now that Merlin has looked his fill at Arthur, or close to it, as he never quite feels he has enough of him, he can look around a little better. Across the pitch, Uther is remarking upon something to one of the minor lords seated behind him, looking amused and vaguely expectant. Gwen is raising her eyebrows at Merlin's new coat and elbowing Lancelot, which Merlin chooses to ignore in favor of scanning the rest of the seats. Margot's off toward the back of the peasant seats with a worried look on her face and a length of yarn on her lap that she's slowly rolling into a neat ball. Finally, on the pitch standing next to Arthur is Eda, looking completely at ease. He's clad in a tunic of fine grey, his water horse sigil embroidered on it in blue.

Eda extends a hand to Arthur, who clasps it in a friendly gesture, leaning in to murmur something in Eda's ear. Eda looks surprised, but he just nods, a smile curving slowly over his face.

Uther stands, and both men bow to him. Once they are standing upright again, he begins to speak. "Prince Arthur, you have agreed to stand in as proxy for Peredur of Prydain, in the matter of Eda's abducted wife. Eda, what are your terms?"

Eda steps forward. "I will settle this matter of honour in single combat." He glances back at Arthur, who nods briskly for him to continue. "The fight will not end until the victor declares it so. The losing man will not ask for mercy."

The crowd's reaction is a combination of surprised and delighted. This is a polite way of stating that the fight will be to the death, and it's much more than the expected fight until first blood match that was originally agreed upon.

Merlin sits back suddenly, forgetting he's on a bench and not a chair. Gwen's arm shoots out, and it's the only thing that stops him from falling into the laps of the people behind them. She keeps her hand curled around his side for a moment, and her hand is steady and strong, a comforting reminder that he's not alone. "He didn't tell me," Merlin hisses. "He'd already decided to do this, and he didn't tell me. I _knew_ he looked more nervous than usual, but he acted like I was imagining things."

"Oh Merlin," Gwen says. "He must have had a good reason." Her expression is more _He'd better have a good reason_ but the support is nice all the same.

"Of course he does," Merlin says bitterly. That's never the problem when he decides to go off and be ridiculously heroic."

"Why-" Lancelot starts, but Gwen knows the answer before he even finishes asking.  
"The wife," she says, and her mouth is a grim line. "Even if Eda lost a fight to first blood, he'd still be allowed to take his wife back. His death is her only chance at freedom."

"Oh," Lancelot says, in a soft, careful voice. "That's rather honourable."

"He's always honourable," Merlin says bitterly, and glances up at the podium to see Uther nod in acceptance of the terms. It's really just ceremonial, as once the terms have been set and agreed upon by both contenders, they cannot be changed by another, not even a king. Uther knows the Knights' Code, of course.

Whose favour do you wear, boy?" Eda asks Arthur, grinning as he draws the crowd's attention back to himself. Arthur's eye flicks to meet Merlin's gaze, subtle but not at all hesitant. He must have seen Merlin picking his way through the crowd to his seat, though Merlin isn't sure how. Merlin isn't any less worried or angry, but he still can't help a little smile at Arthur's open, questioning look. He's rewarded with the faint flush the creeps up Arthur's cheeks, and it's lucky that Eda can't tell exactly who Arthur's looking at, or he might be flinging different taunts altogether.

"Someone worthy," Arthur says shortly and turns to his father. "Shall we?"

The fight seems to go on for forever. Arthur is unquestionably skilled, but Eda has at least two stone on him, and probably just as many, if not more, years of experience. Arthur lands a blow on his shoulder with the flat of his blade, and when Eda hardly flinches, he's forced to fall back, clearly considering Eda's strengths and weaknesses. Eda just looks amused.

Arthur settles quickly into a new rhythm, all rapid thrusts and swift little leaps back and out of the way of Eda's return blows. It seems his plan is to tire Eda out, which is a sound idea except that Eda doesn't seem to be tiring in the least.

Merlin squeezes his eyes closed for a moment, a little overwhelmed. At some point, he must have grabbed Gwen's hand, and both of their knuckles are white in the mutually firm grasp. Beside them, Lancelot is outwardly calm, though his right leg is jiggling nervously. Merlin feels sick with it all, with having to watch Arthur like this, seeing the look on his face as he calculates the best possible way to kill another man. He can't decide what's worse, watching him prepare to kill someone or knowing that Arthur could easily fall to this man. He can't believe he ever enjoyed watching Arthur in the tournaments, and he's afraid he'll never be able to do it again. Of course, he can't take his eyes away either, lest Arthur take a fatal blow in that instant.

He's almost ashamed of it, but Merlin can read Arthur so well when he fights, in a way that he thinks for some reason other people can't see. Eda certainly can't, and even Lancelot isn't tensed the way that he is, waiting for the pressure of the moment to snap. He knows the exact moment when Arthur decides upon his plan. Sure enough, Arthur steps forward. It's just as he's been doing throughout this fight, but this time, his blow is much heavier, and he can't dance back from it. Eda is clearly surprised by the sudden change in tactic, and his hand is slow as he attempts to unbalance Arthur, whose weight is pinning Eda's sword beneath his own.

He finally frees himself and though Arthur really should leap out of the way, he chooses instead to step forward, restricting Eda's range of motion as he turns his body slightly. Eda's blade makes contact with him at a wild angle, skimming up the length of Arthur's torso and leaving a spreading trail of red as it goes. It must take only an instant, but the progress of the blade seems to take an hour, catching on Arthur's jaw before Arthur manages to switch his sword into his other hand and execute a remarkably strong left handed parry. Merlin realises belatedly that Gwen's iron grip is the only thing keeping him from leaping out of the benches and onto the pitch, and with difficulty he forces himself to relax into his seat.

On the field, Eda's sword falls from his grasp, his wrist bent back at a sickening angle. Arthur's freed right hand is caught up in Eda's tunic, not allowing him to back away, and before he can begin to fumble for his lost weapon, Arthur jerks him forward, straight onto the point of his sword. Eda makes a terrible noise as the sword pierces him through, and Arthur stumbles under their combined weight. Merlin can somehow make out Arthur's lips moving near Eda's ear, even through his haze of fear and anger, and he shudders, not wanting to think what it is that Arthur is whispering to the dying man.

When Eda falls, Arthur falls with him, his eyes squeezed tightly closed. He's soaked with blood, and it's difficult to say how much of it is his, and how much belongs to Eda. It looks strange against the red of his tunic, so close in color that it could almost be water if it weren't for the corresponding rents in the fabric. Sir Leon starts forward from the side of the field, but Arthur stops him with a glare, staggering to his feet without assistance.

Merlin's heart is pounding furiously, and suddenly all the fear in him turns into all consuming, helpless rage. He watches Uther declare the terms of the match met, but he can barely hear the words through the roaring in his ears. Yet again, Arthur has chosen to place his life in danger for the sake of foolish honour, and yet again, he's been able to read Merlin so easily that he knows to keep him completely uninformed as to his plans. Merlin is now certain, seeing the firm look on Arthur's face, that he's been set in his decision to kill Eda ever since his conversation with Margot. The recklessness of it is bad, but the dishonesty is far worse and Merlin isn't sure whether he'd rather cry or scream.

In the end, he doesn't do either. Instead, he leaps over the wall of the peasants' box, stalks over to Arthur, and drags him off the field by the arm, making straight for Gaius' chambers. Arthur looks drained, but even at a glance Merlin can see that the long cut over the length of his chest isn't terribly deep. It probably won't require stitches, which is good because Gaius is in the lower village for the evening, helping with a difficult labour. Merlin tugs Arthur by the wrist and pulls him down the hall a little more quickly, still feeling wildly, deliriously angry. Arthur lets himself be led, quiet and meek.

Inside the chambers, Merlin sits Arthur firmly down and takes a knife to his ruined clothes, pulling them free with perhaps slightly more force than necessary. He's stonily silent as he smears a paste of rue and mullein over Arthur's chest. Arthur flinches when he slaps a bandage over it, though, and Merlin suddenly can't contain himself any longer. He drags his new coat off, tossing it roughly at a nearby stack of books. He refuses to wince as it hits the ground.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he demands, even as he smoothes his hands over the bandage in a woefully incongruous motion.

Arthur is uncharacteristically silent, but he slouches into himself a little further, staring down at their feet.

"No," Merlin says. "I'm serious." He reaches for Arthur's chin, just missing the wound as he jerks it up in his direction. "Are you trying to get yourself killed? Or is there some other explanation for this, because if so I would really like to hear it."

Arthur shrugs a little, lamely. "I have to protect Camelot. That includes the people of Camelot. All of them."

"No," Merlin says, and now he's really angry. "That doesn't even make any sense. You were protecting Margot, and she's not even from this kingdom. In fact she's from the same kingdom as the man you just killed, so there goes that logic. Look, I understand your need to protect people, and there's nothing wrong with it, it's incredibly noble. But what I don't understand is why you're so desperate to put yourself in situations that are just asking to get you killed. You're never going to make it far enough to be king, and Arthur," his voice goes slow and gritty. "You. Are. My. King." He steps a little closer, still grasping Arthur's chin as he crowds into his space.

Arthur swallows thickly. "My father," he starts weakly, but Merlin cuts him off.

"I don't even want to start on your _father_ ," he says furiously, and suddenly he doesn't care about anything in the world except showing Arthur that he has to listen to him, and it barely sinks in that he's gone too far, even as he realises that Arthur can undoubtedly see the gold in his eyes. Behind him, the door slams shut and bolts of its own volition. "I _care_ about you, I need you to live," he says harshly, and crushes his mouth against Arthur's, his hands leaving a mess of salve on Arthur's jaw as he grasps his face roughly between his palms.

Arthur lets out a shocked little sound and Merlin has just enough time to think about how very dead he is before he feels Arthur's arms close around him, and suddenly he's being dragged into Arthur's lap as the kiss deepens. Arthur makes a strangled noise and his fingers dig into Merlin's hips as he grinds into his lap, their foreheads knocking together as Arthur tongues into Merlin's mouth, whimpering at the contact. He's hard in his trousers, and Merlin can feel it beneath him as he presses downward in Arthur's arms, his movements brutal and swift. Merlin feels dizzy, his skin buzzing, his chest tight and his cheeks warm. It all registers distantly, but Merlin can't think about anything but _moving_.

Arthur is wide eyed, looking almost stupid with pleasure as he lavishes messy kisses down Merlin's jaw and over his neck. He fumbles at Merlin's trousers, and it's good, almost too good, the fabric rubbing roughly against his dick. Arthur's hand is heavy over him, too hesitant but somehow perfect in its uncertainty. Merlin writhes into the pressure, gasping short, sharp breathes that somehow just aren't enough. He feels feverish, tingling all over as Arthur's breath catches against his throat, hot and scared and desperate. It's too much already, but Merlin still needs to touch, and his sigh comes out deep and shaky against Arthur's breathy moan, as he gets a hand wrapped around the hot, heavy length of Arthur's dick. He hears his own points snap, and then Arthur's hand is on him too, and it's just far too good, so good he has to laugh from the sheer joy of it all, sucking in all of Arthur's sweet little gasps. He won't last long, but that's okay. Arthur's mouth is slack, his lips shiny with spit, and his brow is sweat-slick, hair plastered down damply. He looks utterly filthy, and oh, so good.

Despite the cramp in his wrist from the awkward angle, and the unpleasant way his slick thighs are chafing against his trousers, that look is really quite enough. Merlin presses his forehead down against Arthur's, his hair almost rough against Merlin's too sensitive face as he shudders and comes into Arthur's hand. Arthur makes a shrill noise, almost despairing, and Merlin feels the slick against his stomach as Arthur spends, his hips twitching, thighs heaving beneath Merlin's weight.

They stay suspended like that for a moment, Merlin staring down at Arthur's shocked, almost frightened face, and then he's too drained to remain poised on his arm any longer. Merlin sighs, still trying to slow his breaths, and collapses into Arthur's trembling arms. He's suddenly cold, shivering uncontrollably as the sweat cools in the hollows of his back and throat, and Arthur feels pleasantly warm, nice even though he's still slippery with sweat, too.

Merlin doesn't move until his pulse is slow and steady, beating in time with Arthur's. He can feel it against his palm, his fingers wrapped loosely around Arthur's wrist. His legs are going numb, folded into Arthur's lap as he still is, but Merlin doesn't feel like he could move any time soon. Arthur strokes a hand through his hair, slow and easy, and Merlin shudders and leans into it, sated and overwhelmed, relieved and uneasy all at once.

"You know, you could've just told me," Arthur says, his voice muffled against Merlin's neck. Merlin isn't sure if he means the magic or the being in love with him thing, but it suddenly doesn't matter because Arthur is nuzzling at his collarbones, his tongue darting out to lick over them. Merlin just laughs and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

"Obviously I didn't know you'd react this way."

"Obviously," Arthur agrees easily, and catches Merlin up in his arms like an unruly foal, standing with little difficulty. "Shall we move to your room?"

Merlin nods and lets Arthur carry him there, because he feels completely boneless, and why not let Arthur be a hero in the one situation when it isn't going to get him killed. At last Merlin's anger seems to have dissipated, replaced by a heavy, sleepy contentment. He can't think about it, not yet, he's still a little afraid he might be dreaming. Soon, though, he's probably going to be very, very happy.

On the other side of the closed door, Arthur lays him gently upon the bed and stands over him for a moment, just gazing, before Merlin tugs at his arm, pulling him onto the bed. Arthur collapses beside him, wrapping his arms around Merlin, almost hesitant as he closes the tiny space between their bodies. His hands drift over Merlin's chest, and he can't quite seem to wipe the astonished, wondering look off his face.

"Oh go on then," Merlin says, and lets Arthur pull him out of his shirt and finish dragging his trousers down his hips. "You haven't mussed your bandages, have you?"

Arthur laughs then, and brushes a kiss against Merlin's pliant lips. "No, the bandages are fine."

"Good," he says stubbornly, "Because this whole thing was an exercise in why you need stay safe, not another way for you to be reckless, and I-mmph!" Arthur cuts off the diatribe with a very enthusiastic kiss, and Merlin decides that this is as good a response as he's going to get, so after a while he settles for "Not fair, you're still wearing breeches." He sorts that out by sliding down the bed to pull Arthur's clothes down over his gloriously muscled thighs and drag his chin over the expanse of revealed skin. He stops along the way to suck a mark over his hipbone, his fingers curling around Arthur's kneecap.

He stays there for a while, his face mashed into Arthur's warm, solid thigh, until Arthur chuckles and says, "Why are you down there when you could be up here with me?"

"It's very nice here," Merlin says primly and shifts over Arthur's body, swiping his tongue over the head of Arthur's dick.

It was really just to prove a point, but Arthur reacts beautifully, gasping sharply, his hips canting forward in a manner that must be instinctive, it's so unlike his normal calm demeanor. Merlin is suddenly elated. Arthur's cock is already hardening against his mouth all heavy and warm. As he drags his tongue inquisitively over the velvety head, Arthur moans his name and claps a hand belatedly over his mouth. Merlin's reminded of his own first time, young and foolish and carefree, and his chest constricts at the thought. Arthur looks so shocked, so helpless, that this must be his first time for any of this. Merlin can't decide if he's sad, touched, or enchanted. But regardless, it's inspiring.

"All right," he says matter-of-factly, and he reaches up to pull Arthur's hand away from his mouth, clasping his fingers with his own as he sucks down the length of him, dragging his tongue flatly over the base of his cock as Arthur groans and struggles beneath him. Arthur falls apart so easily at his touch, struggling to remain still, his face blotched red as he bites down hard upon his lip.

Merlin reaches up and presses his fingers against Arthur's lips, pushing them gently but firmly into his mouth. The slick heat sends a jolt to his cock, and Arthur seems to like it too, if his helpless groan is any indication. He looks almost wild and more than a little fearful, but he can't seem to stop his hips from bucking, from trying to get deeper, faster. Merlin chuckles around the length of him and obliges, fingers spit-slick around the base of his dick, wrapped firmly around him. He brushes his thumb along the line of Arthur's strong jaw and revels in Arthur's shiver.

There's something about the way Arthur writhes against him, the way his hips shudder gracelessly, lacking in the control that comes with experience. Merlin can't say why he likes it so much, the weight of Arthur in his mouth, the heat of it, the way he has to work to keep from choking. But he does, it makes him feel reckless, _god_ already breathless with the sort of want that makes him feel like slithering up over Arthur and taking _everything_. Perhaps he ought to wait, be sure that Arthur isn't having second thoughts, but Arthur's begging him, now, high little whimpers that make Merlin so goddamn hard, and his fingers are slick from Arthur's mouth, slipping under Arthur to trail down his spine and lower still. He's gentle and still, waiting for Arthur to bolt, to pull sharply away and say that that's quite enough.

He doesn't bolt. If anything, he pushes into it, his face flushed red as he gasps inarticulately. Merlin grins around the slick length of him, adds another finger when he whines for it. Merlin's done this before, but never like this, with someone so desperate and beautifully shocked. Arthur is so responsive, shivering at his every touch, working himself harder on Merlin's fingers as though he just can't get enough of it. He groans expansively as Merlin's nose brushes the wiry hair at the base of his dick, taking him in completely.

"Ok," Arthur says breathlessly. "Yeah," and when Merlin looks up inquisitively at him, he goes even redder and says, "You can do it. You know, _that_ ," and gestures down at himself.

Merlin pulls off of him with a slick, obscene pop. He feels strangely lascivious, wants to touch every inch of Arthur's body, drive him slowly mad, learn every bit of muscle, callous, and surprising softness. It makes him want to whisper filthy things in Arthur's ear, make him blush, make him whimper, let his voice go slow and dark and honey sweet. "You sure?" Merlin asks, somehow finding his voice.

Arthur nods emphatically, letting out a desperate little moan. He's fumbling behind him, contorting himself so as not to pull away from where Merlin is licking lazily over the length of his dick. It should be comical, except it's Arthur, so it's just painfully, unbelievably hot. It's clever of Arthur, too, to have noticed the little jar beside the bed when he carried Merlin into the room. Arthur presses the salve into Merlin's hand, and Merlin drops a kiss on his knuckles, smiling.

"All right," he says, and dips his fingers into the jar, working Arthur open with the slick. Arthur looks incredible like this, his limbs flung out and his eyes dark with desire, his erection still slippery from Merlin's mouth where it brushes against his arm. He looks impossibly hard, his dick twitching, dark and heavy.

"C'mon," Arthur says thickly, and Merlin does, pulling his fingers out of Arthur with a slick noise that punches a groan out of both of them. "Hurry," Arthur says weakly, and Merlin draws up on one arm, guiding his dick with the other.

"Okay?" he asks, and waits out Arthur's shuddered gasp for a nod before pressing slowly into him.

Arthur goes tense, and Merlin hesitates, glancing up at him. His brow is furrowed, his jaw set strongly. "Go on," he says roughly, and digs his nails into Merlin's shoulder.

Merlin ignores him, tracing slowly over the contours of his chest and arms, avoiding the bandages as he leans forward to lick over Arthur's nipples, dragging his teeth gently over them and sucking them each into his mouth in turn. He desperately needs to move, to get deeper, but this is easily as hot, Arthur's eyes fluttering closed as he squeezes around Merlin's dick, knuckles fisted white against the rough wool of Merlin's blanket. Arthur looks unusually relaxed despite the desperate way in which his hips keep hitching up, focused only on opening up for Merlin, no other thoughts marring his expression. Merlin can't help but kiss him at that, slow and gentle. He drinks up Arthur's moans; captivated by the way Arthur shivers so sweetly beneath him. He thinks he's never been so enchanted by anybody in his life.

"Move," Arthur says finally, his voice cracking a little as he scratches at the back of Merlin's neck. Finally Merlin raises himself up on his arms and begins to move.

He starts slowly, rocking back and forth in tiny increments as Arthur shudders beneath him. He's so responsive, so unlike Merlin had thought he'd be. The easy confidence he has before his knights is gone, the dutiful look he wears in the audience hall. Instead it's something else, something young and fearful and fragile. He seems sure of nothing, now, except how much he wants this. Which, thank god, because Merlin's working hard to keep control of himself, but he's still not sure he could possibly survive something this good.

He thrusts faster, reveling in the slick sound of their bodies moving together, articulated by Arthur's breathy moans and his own hoarse noises. Leaning his weight on one arm, he's able to reach for Arthur's dick, so tight and heavy that Merlin thinks he almost could have come without being touched. Arthur could easily touch himself, but Merlin doesn't want him to, doesn't want him to _have_ to. He wants to give him everything, wants to feel it all, Arthur gasping and pulsing into Merlin's hand, slicking him with come. His fist, tangled in the bed sheets, mirrors the clench of all of his muscles against Merlin's cock, and Arthur comes with a strangled, helpless noise. Merlin manages another few strokes and then he's coming too, shouting hoarsely as Arthur gazes up at him, wide-eyed.

Arthur seems completely boneless beneath him, but when Merlin finally manages to pull out of him, he chuckles and wraps his arms around Merlin's still-heaving back, pulling them both onto their sides so they're more comfortably arranged. Merlin is completely spent, and a little dazed. Now Arthur appears to be the one who knows what the hell he's doing, as he is running a hand over Merlin's hair and whispering indulgences in his ear as he smiles softly at him. Merlin sighs expansively and wriggles closer, pressing his face to Arthur's neck and dropping lazy kisses there. His limbs feel pleasantly heavy, and he's fuzzy all over, warm and sated.

"We're filthy," Arthur murmurs. Merlin looks up at him, surprised, because he thought everything was all right but apparently it isn't.

"No, we aren't," he mutters back. "This is perfectly normal behaviour."

"No," Arthur chokes back a laugh. "I mean look at us, we need a bath."

"Oh." Merlin's cheeks go warm and he wraps his arms around Arthur's torso. "But we'd have to get dressed and walk all the way to your chambers, and it's _cold_ out." He clutches beseechingly at him, adding "Wouldn't you rather stay here where it's nice and cozy?"

Arthur chuckles, and his chest rumbles pleasantly against Merlin's side. "I don't see why we can't have both. Can't you just-" he waves a hand lazily. "Magic it here or something?"

"Oh," Merlin says again. " _Oh_." He draws inward, concentrating. "Yeah," he says finally, and the bath is there, large and full of hot water. It feels more illicit than anything they've just done, using magic in front of Arthur, but he just looks interested and faintly relieved.

"Come on," Arthur says mildly. "Before it gets cold."

Merlin laughs a bit nervously at that. "I could just heat it up again."

"Oh," Arthur fumbles. "Right. Well, get in anyway."

They scrub each other clean, which leads to getting messy again— making Merlin thankful for his youthful endurance— and then clean up once more, slowly learning the feel of one another's bodies. Merlin is entranced by Arthur's numerous scars, and he spends the afternoon tracing them all, learning the stories of falling from trees or horses, first jousts, poorly matched sparring partners and wartime. It's a history he feels no one has ever before taken, the wounds of Arthur, and he feels the urge to write it on vellum in one of Gaius's huge, leather-bound tomes and hide it away forever.

Arthur seems similarly fascinated with Merlin's body. He runs his hands slowly over the workings of muscle and bone of his arms, trailing down his wrists to drift over each knuckle and catch at his fingertips. He spends a long while stroking the line of his flank, and traces over his ribs with a reverent gaze. He even seems to like the curve of Merlin's ankle, where he tucks his thumb into the space behind the bone and rubs.

Some time in the early evening they find the energy to leave Merlin's room, and they wander all through the castle making a general nuisance of themselves before finally rushing into Arthur's room with a load of pilfered food and throwing themselves upon the bed to eat, laughing exuberantly. The castle feels completely new, seeing it through Arthur's eyes, as Merlin has spent the day hearing all of Arthur's childhood tales of getting caught in a cubbyhole during hide and seek, or the balustrade he almost fell off of once, while being lectured by Uther.

These stories are interspersed with questions about Merlin's childhood, which he answers happily, telling Arthur all about growing up with his mother and rambling through the woods to cause trouble with Will. Arthur goes a little still at the name, but Merlin just leans close and kisses him, and the moment is repaired. That night he falls asleep in Arthur's bed, his limbs warm and heavy where they're wrapped around him, and Merlin knows he'll wake up in this same position.

In the morning, Merlin stirs lazily, Arthur's erection rubbing sticky circles against the small of his back. He's hard too, and he takes himself in hand for a moment, stroking casually, before deciding instead to push Arthur onto his back and slide down to suck him off. Arthur is still asleep at first, his hips jerking languidly at the pull of Merlin's mouth, but he wakes quickly, thrashing a little and looking around confusedly.

Merlin pulls off the length of him to say "Relax, I've got you," before dragging the flat of his tongue down the length of Arthur's dick and sucking him back into his mouth. Arthur does relax, just like that.

Merlin likes doing this. He likes all of it, the warmth, the weight, the softness. It feels like a secret, something of Arthur that nobody's ever seen before, nobody except him, and that's precious; more of a gift than Arthur could possibly know. It's slow and warm and pleasant, and Arthur draws the covers close and laces his fingers through Merlin's hair, sighing sweetly at his every move. It doesn't take very long before his hips sharply hitch up in a motion that seems so unconsciously desperate, he must be working to keep from coming. His face is red and sweat-dappled, and he's shivering all over. He reaches down to cup his own erection, but Arthur grabs at his arm and says, "No, not yet, please. After." It's a little selfish but Merlin can hardly bring himself to care when presented with the expanse of Arthur's body, stretched out and quivering under his ministrations. He grasps around the base of Arthur's cock and Arthur comes, shuddering and making a noise deep in his throat that Merlin would like him to never stop making ever. Merlin swallows it down and daintily licks him clean.

They lie like that for a moment, Merlin growing steadily more and more uncomfortable. Just as he's about to ask Arthur to help him, he's tossed onto his back and Arthur is sliding down his body to gaze speculatively at his cock. Merlin rises up on his elbows, watching Arthur stare down at him. His cock is straining and hard, beaded with moisture at the tip. Arthur just looks at it for a moment before licking curiously at the head.

Merlin thumps back against the pillows. "You're going to kill me," he says seriously.

Arthur licks down the length of him, then back up. It seems quite matter-of-fact, but when he looks up, his expression is uncertain. "I want to-" he says hesitantly. "I don't know what to do."

His lips are so close that they brush against the head of Merlin's cock as he speaks.  
"Do what feels good to you," Merlin says, a little breathlessly. "Just suck. Avoid teeth. I'll like it."

He still looks concerned. "I've never done this before."

Merlin can't help grinning, in spite of his growing need to have something touch him somehow right now, please. "Arthur," he says remarkably patiently. "I'll like it because you're doing it. I like you."

"Oh," Arthur says, and looks a little startled. "Okay." He leans forward, then, and sucks the head of Merlin's cock into his mouth, running his tongue over the slit and then around.

Merlin groans expansively and tangles his fingers in Arthur's hair, rolling his hips upward in appreciation. He can feel Arthur's smile against his dick, and it sends a shiver running through him.

Arthur doesn't waste any more time, sucking him off wet and messy and fast. He's a little clumsy, though he learns quickly. But even if he didn't, Merlin would still be lost in the soft look in Arthur's eyes. He's doing this because he wants to, and that thought keeps running through Merlin's head until he feels half dizzy with it. He wants to. He wants Merlin. Arthur wants Merlin.

 _I want you too_ he thinks, and now his hips are trying to piston up and down as Arthur holds him against the bed with one large hand. "Gonna come," he gasps, and tries to pull back, but Arthur doesn't let him, instead pulling him closer and deeper. He runs his hand through the pooling sweat on Merlin's stomach, drifting lower to pass over his jerking hips and clench at his arse cheeks. Merlin comes with a wail, spilling himself into Arthur's mouth, and though his eyes widen, Arthur swallows it down without a sound.

His mouth stays on Merlin's prick for almost too long, sucking gently until he is soft and tender. He places one last kiss upon the head, then crawls up the bed and fits himself over Merlin's body, clasping his face gently between his large, calloused hands and kissing him. His expression is soft, almost reverent, and his kisses are too, slow and a little wet and full of whatever words Arthur can't bring his self to say. They stay like that until nearly midday, drowsy and pliant and not quite able to stop kissing, and it's only extreme hunger that drives them to finally get up.

The next few days pass in a haze of sex and contentment. Merlin can't get enough of it all, and the same seems to be true of Arthur. They learn every inch of each other's bodies, tell outlandish stories about their lives, their fears and desires, and laugh over the surprising number of things they already know about one another. They feed each other breakfast, stroke slow hands over one another in the bath, and learn the exquisite feeling of Arthur sunk deep inside Merlin, his face slack and open with pleasure. Merlin learns the way that Arthur likes to be kissed, the way he likes Merlin's fingers splayed out over his back and holding him close. He discovers the quiet way in which Arthur sighs when he has lost control of himself, and the fearful look he gets when he isn't sure what to do, or doesn't know how to say something out loud.

They stumble through the courtyard to find a remote region of the snowy fields and collapse into the fresh snowdrifts to kiss each other senseless, laughing and shoving snow in their hair and down one another's tunics. Inside, they tear wild circles around Gwen and Lancelot, playing elaborate games of tag that always end with one or the other of them caught up against a wall in a dark corner, until their gasping goes deep and urgent and they take off for whoever's room is closest. Gaius attempts a dry expression but is caught more than once with a slightly silly grin on his face as Arthur slips up and drapes a too-familiar arm around Merlin's waist, his fingers cupping the point of his hip.

"Don't go acting foolish in front of anyone important," Gaius chides, and wanders off to hide his smile in a tome on fevers and afflictions. Arthur's face is impossibly bright, at that.

They aren't exactly secretive, and while Merlin is anxious about it, Arthur is unconcerned. "It's not as though I've got a potential princess or something to look good for," he says casually, and his sticky kiss tastes of the blackberry tart they've just stolen out from under Cook's brutally wielded spatula. That's quite nice really, so Merlin lets him continue for a bit before he pushes him off. "Yes, but what if you did?" he says. "Won't they find you feeble or something?"

"Merlin, I'm hardly feeble," Arthur says, as though he must be quite feebleminded himself to think it, and he tosses Merlin over his shoulder to prove his word, not releasing him until he can drop him down on the bed. Merlin can hardly argue with that.

The days stretch out into weeks. Merlin spends his morning tucked into a corner windowsill with piles of mending or bits of things to shine, working on his chores while glancing down at Arthur ordering the knights through their drills. Arthur looks up occasionally, shooting him a sharp, happy look before executing one flawless manoeuvre or another.

Later in the day, they ride through the lower town or sometimes walk. On these trips, Arthur tells Merlin about the way crops and supplies are distributed or the repairing of houses or the pulleys that run the wells. Other days, Merlin introduces him to the farrier, or the stout baker, or the little girl who desperately wants to be a knight when she grows up.

"I've only met lady knights who wanted to kill me, thus far," Arthur tells her. "But they've all been quite brave, and strong as any man, so I don't see why Camelot couldn't use some nice lady knights, to balance out the tally."

Then there's the magic. Merlin's thought a lot about how Arthur might react to finding out about the magic. Yet as is the usual way of things, he'd never imagined anything close to the way it turned out. Arthur is interested, but he rarely asks Merlin to use magic for him, except in situations where it will save Merlin some sort of work. He doesn't flinch when Merlin uses magic unexpectedly, for instance when the fire is burning low or when he spills the wine dangerously close to Arthur's favorite jerkin.

This total lack of fear is the most surprising part of it all. Merlin can't imagine how Arthur can be so unconcerned, when he's spent his life being raised to believe that the very essence of magic is evil. He wants to ask, but it's still too new for these sorts of confessions, and besides Arthur is really terrible about talking about the way he feels about anything that isn't food or fighting. Sex still renders him speechless, though he's getting a little better about asking for what he wants without going too red with shame. It isn't a complete hardship, as Merlin is secretly enchanted with his unexpected shyness, though watching Arthur grow more self-assured is also enjoyable.

During this time, Morgause visits twice. Well, three times if Merlin counts her appearance on the second night after the tournament, when she appeared next to Merlin and took a few seconds to notice Arthur lying beside him with his face tucked into Merlin's neck and his hands tight around Merlin's waist. He was thankfully sound asleep, snoring a little in his completely endearing way. Morgause grinned widely, made a number of leering expressions and gestures, backing away into nothingness, with whispers that she'd come back at a more opportune time.

On the other occasions, she finds him during the day. He doesn't know how Morgause knows when to find him alone, but she does, both times. She doesn't bring much news, although she says that Morgana has dreamt of Gwen several times, but can't see any helpful details as of yet. She hasn't managed to find anything that can be used against Mordred, and though she acts strong and confident, Merlin can see that she's growing more worried by the day. When he tries to comment on it, Morgause changes the subject to tease and congratulate him. It isn't entirely unwelcome. Merlin feels an undercurrent of worry each time she visits, something in the back of his head that prickles unpleasantly. It's hard to hold onto it, though, when he's got Arthur to think about. It fades quickly, every time.

The weeks blend together into a long stretch of pleasant happiness. Merlin feels as though time has begun to move somehow differently, flowing past him in a wash of lovely feelings and lingering touches; the simple act of Arthur lacing his fingers into Merlin's own under the table, of the way Arthur can always find him in a crowd, his gaze long and a little dark, and the way it always makes both their throats catch. He loves the warmth of Arthur, wrapped around him in bed, the way he looks in the morning, a little befuddled that it's already light out, and so open and honest before he wakes up fully and falls into his princely demeanor. The weather begins to warm and with the first thaw, everything outside goes wet, muddy, and glorious as the village children run about in the courtyard, looking for the first blades of spring grass.

One day they walk out amidst this, the air crisp against Merlin's skin but still delivering a teasing promise of summer. He's wearing his coat, and he has finally spent enough time leaning against Arthur that it smells of him. They wander away from the children, toward the lightly wooded border of the village. Everything is starting to hint at green again, and Arthur stops just where the trees begin to grow thick and the brush has become a nuisance. "I'd like to see it all alive, just for a moment," he says wistfully. "It feels like it'll be an eternity before everything comes back to colour."

Merlin smiles and reaches out for Arthur's hand, drawing close to press his other hand over Arthur's eyes. "Just for a moment," he whispers.

When he takes his hand away, the forest is bedecked in fresh, dewy leaves, and the path is nearly covered over by wildflowers. Arthur laughs, a warm, pleased sound that fills the air around them, and pulls Merlin in for a kiss.

"Could you build a kingdom, do you think?" he asks, drawing back a little with his arms still wrapped snugly around Merlin's shoulders.

"If I had a king to build it for," Merlin says seriously. "I really think I could."

"Some day," Arthur says quietly, and his tone is strangely fervent, "When I am king, we shall build it together." They stand there together for a long time, kissing slowly in the warm spring air, surrounded by the trees so green and the budding flowers.

Lancelot drags them both off later to show them the wedding bed he's building for Gwen. He's been working secretly at it in the back of the carpenter's shop, paying for it by helping with the tedious job of sanding down the raw planks whenever Gwen is called away in the evenings to serve dinner. He'll ask her to marry him once it's ready, he says. Arthur and Merlin smile and send secret, pleased looks at one another and generally cause all three of them to blush in half-hearted embarrassment and genuine happiness.

He tells Arthur about Mordred, soon after that, though he can't bring himself to mention Morgause. He hates the omission, knows it for the lie it is. No matter how he pretends, though, Merlin knows the sting of his father's betrayal hasn't left Arthur, even now that he believes Morgause was lying to him. That seems like too much, for Merlin to burden him with the knowledge of his father's deeds and how they resulted in Arthur's birth. It doesn't feel like Merlin's story to tell. Mordred, though, is, and Merlin does his best to fill in the story without mentioning Morgause's hand in it. "He's going to cause trouble for us," Arthur says of Mordred. "I'm certain of it. What can we do?"

"There is one thing," Merlin says slowly. It's a thought that's been growing steadily in the back of his mind for some time now. "Once, I did something for you, something that you weren't ready for at the time. I think now you might be."

"What is it?" Arthur asks and his look has already gone soft and sweet, that expression that he gets whenever he realises that Merlin has done something for him. He hasn't had many people in his life who've done things for him just because he's Arthur, not prince Arthur or Uther's son or Camelot's heir apparent. He's still strangely touched every time it happens, though Merlin is working to make him lose track of them all, because it almost hurts to look at Arthur's beautiful, almost broken face every time it happens.

"Fancy a nighttime ride?" Merlin asks, and he nods in the affirmative. "Wait, though," he murmurs, and pulls Merlin close, tucking their bodies together and kissing him warmly, his lips slow and soft as he tongues into Merlin's mouth. They'd had sex once already, a little earlier that evening, and Arthur is still slicked open from it. Merlin's hand drifts back to slip a pair of fingers into him, stroking lazily in and out. After a moment of this, Arthur adjusts them so that Merlin can enter him, both of them still lying comfortably on their sides.

His groans are soft and musical, ringing sweetly in the heaviness of the recent nightfall. The sunsets are growing later, and this evening the sky still feels full and bright, having been so recently light. Merlin feels half-delirious with it all, the warmth and the softness and the delicious slow press of his cock deep in Arthur's body. They're hardly moving, just rocking gently back and forth with their torsos aligned and Arthur's leg wrapped loosely around his waist, and yet Merlin feels entirely bewitched. It's love, he realises, as Arthur makes a prayer out of his name, and he says so later, into the mess of Arthur's hair as their pulses slow.

"I love you too," Arthur whispers back, and Merlin pulls him up to kiss the corners of his radiant smile.

They ride out later that night. The air is pleasantly cool, and Merlin feels relaxed and sated, but edged with the faintest tinge of excitement. Neither of them says very much, but they don't need to. Their feelings are a cloud of warmth, cloaking them completely. Arthur looks over at him, occasionally, and he seems unable to control the smile that slips free of his quietly contemplative expression every time he catches Merlin's eye. Arthur mouths the words again, sometimes, and they seem to hang in the air between them, more powerful and more important than any spell Merlin could ever think to cast. He says it back, just as often.

"I don't know exactly what to do," Merlin says when they reach the lake. "I'm sort of improvising, here."

"You got me a sea monster?" Arthur says and has no right to look that hopeful about something that could eat them both.

"Not exactly," Merlin says and conjures up a little boat. "Here, get in."

He doesn't bother with oars, letting his powers guide them. He can feel the magic of the lake, pulsing with every rock of the boat in the gently eddying water. "Ask for it," he says finally, when they're nearly in the middle of the lake.

"I don't know what I'm asking for," Arthur says, but he still sits up a little straighter. "Could I have what Merlin made for me, please? For Arthur Pendragon?"

It's not the most eloquent of speeches, but Merlin feels the change in the air anyway, and apparently Arthur does too, rubbing at his arms as everything goes strange and hazy. His skin feels as though it's thrumming with something old and powerful, and the breeze is incredibly exhilarating as it picks up, brushing over his buzzing skin.

"There," Arthur says quietly, and points out ahead of them where Excalibur emerges from the water, held in the pale grip of a hand. The sword continues to rise out of the water until he can see the length of an arm, almost translucent in the moonlight.

"It's yours," Merlin says quietly, and Arthur leans forward, boldly clasping the hand that grips the hilt. The sword is released, and Arthur takes it, gazing down at it in wonder. Merlin watches as the arm slowly retreats back into the water, but Arthur has eyes only for the sword.

"What is this?" he asks, his voice alight with wonder and some sort of wild joy.

"Excalibur," Merlin says softly. "Forged of magic, and more than one sort of love, tempered in dragon's breath. It's yours. The sword of a true king."

Arthur runs a reverent hand over the runes inscribed on the flat of the blade, and when he looks up, his expression doesn't change. "Thank you," he breathes. Merlin leans in and kisses him, tasting the joy and the love and the other thousand wonderful things that Arthur doesn't know how to say, but feels all the same. It's a moment he thinks he will always remember.

**

In May, they receive word that King Leodegrance is riding toward Camelot with a large delegation. Everyone is pleased, as it's the first contact they've had with the outside world since the long winter, and reports from the neighbouring towns tell of fools and funny low-bellied roan ponies laden down with casks of mead. The castle becomes a flurry of preparations, clearing out the reeds and airing the guest rooms, making room in the stables. Cook is in a furor, plotting out a shocking array of dishes for the great feast, and even Gaius seems to have a bit of a jig in his step.

"Leodegrance's niece came here when I was a child," Arthur says while they're scrubbing each other down in the bath. "She came to stay with her father, who was a member of the court here. They both died of a fever when I was five; I barely remember it. Leodegrance was quite kind about it though. I've known people who'd go to war over far less, but he said it was the way of the world and sent us a pair of swine to hold a feast in their name. You might ask Gwen if she remembers any of it," he adds, working his fingers over Merlin's scalp. Merlin groans appreciatively and raises his eyebrows in question, too lazy to bother with words.

"She traveled with them," Arthur says, interpreting his expression easily. "Her mother was a member of Leodegrance's household and her father came here for work before she was born. He sent them money, I think. Anyway, when the delegation came through, Gwen's mother sent her along, and that's how she got here. As I said, we were very young at the time, but she might remember a bit of it."

"I'm more interested in you just now," Merlin says and loses himself in the feeling of Arthur's touch.

Leodegrance arrives on a warm, soggy evening in the second week of May, and he's just as kind as Arthur made him out to be, tall and very broad and swarthy, with a thick black beard and a deep, jovial laugh. They hold a great feast for him, and he insists that all the servants join in, so Merlin ends up seated behind Arthur eating venison rubbed in thick, brilliantly flavoured herbs and stealing little sips of his wine. Arthur laughs often and heartily, flings a bit of leek at him (he really doesn't like them very much at all) and joins him in making faces at Gwen, who's seated primly a little farther down the line. "Won't be long before Lancelot asks her," Arthur whispers and Merlin grins and nods.

After they eat, Leodegrance lifts his goblet and toasts the health of Uther, Arthur, and everyone else from the scullery maids to the knights in training. Uther looks pleased by this, although it might just be slight intoxication. Leodegrance leans back in his seat, clasping his hands over his ample belly, and when he speaks again, his tone is conversational.

"Your hospitality has been exceptional, Uther m'boy" he begins, ignoring the way everyone titters at his lack of formality, especially since Uther is almost certainly several years his senior. Uther, surprisingly, doesn't seem fazed. "And yet I must admit it's not the only thing that brings us here to you. It's come to my attention that a rather, er," he coughs. "A rather embarrassing mistake has been made, and I feel it's my duty to remedy it. It's of personal interest to me, in fact."

Uther gestures him to continue. He really must be a little drunk because he looks nothing but curious.

"A number of years ago," Leodegrance says, "My brother died here with his daughter. It was quite sad, but I don't believe the fault belongs to anyone."

Merlin turns to Arthur, cocking his head at the familiarity of the story.

"Before my niece died," Leodegrance continues, "My brother had a portrait commissioned of her. It was a lovely little thing, and he sent it to his wife. She only received it after they'd both died, though, and never opened it. Said the thought of it made her too sad, poor lass. Well, it's been a good long time, and she finally decided to open that old parcel and look at her girl in the picture. And you can imagine her surprise when she didn't recognise her at all. Y'see, the girl had a great large mark on her face, the kind you have from birth, and m'brother's wife says she knows her daughter didn't have such a thing. Said she didn't recognise the child at all. It caused quite a bit of confusion, so our genealogist produced the records from my niece's birth year and did a bit of reading, and he discovered that there were two girls born in the household, one with this mark and one without. The girl with the mark was a blacksmith's daughter, sent to Camelot to work at her father's side once she grew old enough, and the girl without the mark was my niece. D'you see the concern here, M'lord?"

"It would seem," Uther says slowly, "that the two children somehow went to the wrong fathers upon their arrival at Camelot."

"Quite right," Leodegrance says. "The blacksmith must have thought it was a gift from the gods, having that mark removed from his daughter's face so miraculously. Turns out it wasn't the same girl at all." Merlin looks at Arthur to be sure he's not the only one whose jaw is quite firmly dropped. He's not.

"So you see," Leodegrance continues, "We've come here because we believe my niece is still here today, working in your household as a servant." He stands. "Where is the girl named Guinevere?"

Gwen stands slowly, looking terrified. Merlin doesn't feel much better, but he shoots her a calming look anyway, thinking it can't hurt.

"Lady Guinevere," Leodegrance says warmly. "Come embrace your Uncle. We'll restore you to your rightful place immediately."

The rest of the evening is an extended period of surreal occurrences. Gwen is given a fine room in the royal wing, though she swears repeatedly that she doesn't want it. This interaction is repeated with clothes and jewels, then food and wine. Uther looks sort of shocked and uneasy, but he works hard to hide it.

When dinner ends, Merlin slips away from Arthur with a quick press of his hand to the inside of Arthur's wrist, a silent promise that he won't be gone for long. He finds Lancelot in Gwen's house, putting the new bed together in the corner where her old one once sat.

"I've got something to tell you," Merlin says quietly, and helps him with the blankets as he tells Lancelot who Gwen really is.

"Come up to the castle tonight," he says. "You can sleep by the fire, Arthur has far more rugs than we ever use."

"I'll be fine," Lancelot tries, but it doesn't sound at all sincere, so Merlin drags him up to the castle and makes a little nest of blankets for him by the fire. Arthur watches sleepily, already in bed, and when Merlin climbs in, he doesn't seem at all embarrassed about wrapping himself around Merlin just like every other night, and sighing in deep relief at the contact. Lancelot still looks tired and confused, but he offers Merlin a little smile and bids them both goodnight in a steady voice.

Soft, sleepy Arthur is one of Merlin's very favorite things, and when Merlin wakes up to the sensation of Arthur's slow, warm breath on his neck, he wastes no time taking advantage of the opportunity to roll over and kiss him. Though the days are now mostly pleasant, the mornings are still laced with a lingering chill. In the cold air Arthur feels even more warm, a pleasing contrast that makes Merlin burrow closer, unwilling to move out of his immediate vicinity.

Arthur sighs and nuzzles at the top of Merlin's ear, his eyes still closed, and Merlin's chest feels tight with the sheer happiness of waking up like this, held close, with nothing to hide and nothing to fear. It's a feeling he often has, but no matter how many mornings he's woken up just like this, it hasn't receded. He brushes a kiss over Arthur's slack lips and whispers "Good morning."

"Mmph," Arthur says. He's still half asleep, but he parts his lips into Merlin's kiss all the same. Merlin wraps a hand around the curve of his jaw, kissing him slowly. The mornings are always nicely unrushed, unlike their evenings where more often then not they just drag each other out of their clothes and up onto whatever surface is nearest, half mad for each other after an unbearable evening apart. By all rights, that sort of impatience should have faded by now, but it's still strong as ever. This, though, is the opposite sort of feeling. It's unrushed, unassuming, almost meandering.

"Morning," Arthur mumbles against his lips, and seems to finally be awake, because he rolls over onto Merlin, kissing him with a bit more gusto and sliding his hand under Merlin's body to wrap his fingers around the blade of Merlin's shoulder. It could lead to something slightly more urgent, definitely will in fact, except then Lancelot coughs politely behind them and Merlin remembers that they're not alone. Arthur makes a vaguely embarrassed sound that is almost a laugh, rolling off Merlin with a put-upon glare as he curls up around his back. Merlin smiles a little, in spite of himself, and leans back into the embrace.

"Don't let me disturb you," Lancelot says dryly, and Merlin sighs.

"Sorry." It sounds a little petulant, so he amends it, adding, "Morning, Lancelot, do you feel like breakfast?"

"If it isn't too much bother," Lancelot says, and Merlin glances over at him. He's still lying in a pile of blankets, which is, at least, a little better than if he'd been sitting around fully clothed and watching them grope one another.

"No trouble at all," he says, and slides one foot out from under the covers to investigate the temperature.

He quickly pulls it back under the covers. "It's _cold_ ," he says reproachfully. "Why didn't you tell me it was so cold?"

Arthur smothers a laugh against the back of Merlin's neck and raises himself up onto his forearm, leaning to plant a kiss on the top of Merlin's head. "I believe this is a job for a valiant prince," he says. Arthur throws off his side of the blankets with a dramatic flourish, leaping out of bed and striding over to the door to lean out and call for a tray of food. He trots back to bed, then, and though Merlin puts up a fight about his cold feet, he really doesn't mind.

They all manage to get up once the breakfast platter arrives. Lancelot is silent for the first few bites, but once they've all settled in, he looks down at the table, where Arthur's hand is almost covering Merlin's and says, "I need to see Gwen."

Arthur sighs. "It's not that easy anymore. She's a lady now. She can't entertain village men. Sorry," he adds, at Lancelot's outraged look. "It's not what I think of you, but it is what my father will think."

"I'll go to her," Merlin cuts in. "I could easily be carrying out her dirty dishes, or tidying up. "I'll tell her you're asking after her, and find out if she can slip away to see you."

Arthur nods, and at Merlin's pleading look adds, "Come down to the lower village with me today, Lancelot. My knights will be teaching the villagers a few drills, and I'd like your help. You know the locals better than I do, already."

Lancelot agrees, still unwilling to ignore any request Arthur makes of him. He doesn't look particularly happy about it, but at least he isn't running off to get himself into loads of trouble over Gwen, so Merlin considers it a victory.

"Go on, then," he says. "I'll go to Gwen once her real servant clears her breakfast. Should be soon, I'll wait around the corner." Arthur stands, pushing his chair back from the table with a dull scrape. He nods again, drawing Merlin close in the doorway, threading his fingers into Merlin's hair and pulling him into a lingering kiss.

"I love the way you always make things better," Arthur whispers, and when he pulls away he's blushing.

"Come along, Lancelot," he says, and his tone is brisk once again. He squeezes Merlin's hand before stepping through the doorway. Lancelot smiles back at Merlin, looking a little less miserable, then follows Arthur out the door.

As promised, Merlin finds Gwen alone in her new chambers. She's sitting on the edge of an enormous, opulently carved bed, her feet connecting with the band of wood under the ticking in a series of dull thuds. She's clad in a shimmery blue dress that looks ridiculously expensive, and Merlin has to stop for a moment, thinking how lovely Lancelot would think her like this, soft dress and softer skin, her hair loose and gently curly. Her gaze is downcast, though she spares him a smile when he sits down next to her.

"Oh Merlin," she says quietly. "This is awful. I'm an impostor in these fancy clothes, this fancy room, and everyone knows it."

"You're not, though," Merlin says, and puts an arm around her. "You were born to this," he says, "And you deserve it."

"That's not much consolation," Gwen says, and presses her face to the top of his shoulder.

"Well you've still got us," Merlin says. "Arthur and me, and Lancelot of course."

"Oh Lancelot," she says, her voice muffled against the cloth of his shirt. "Is he being insufferable yet?"

"We talked him out of battering down your door, if that's what you mean," Merlin says. "He'd like to see you, though. He's worried about you. Can you slip away this evening?"

Gwen glances furtively at the door. "I fear I can't. Everyone is trying to get a good look at me right now. I suspect they all need a bit of innocent gossip, but it means there's always someone waiting for me to go out, so they can talk to me."

"Right," Merlin says, considering. "I hadn't thought of that. But perhaps he could come here?"

"Oh!" Gwen says. "Yes, of course, put him in livery and tell him to keep his head down, and nobody should bat an eye at it. He can't stay long, of course, but I want to see him just as badly as he wants to see me. We'll make do."

"Right," Merlin says, and wanders off to charm his servants' uniform into something that could possibly fit Lancelot.

**

"My father's called an audience," Arthur says that night. Lancelot is back in the village, apparently soothed by his talk with Gwen.

Merlin curls into Arthur's arms, shivering. They've just gotten into bed, and though it's nearly June, the linens are still cold at night. "What about?" he asks sleepily.

"Oh, you know," Arthur says. He's lying on his side, one arm draped loosely over Merlin's shoulders, and Merlin twists a little, into the warm, soft hollow of where Arthur's arm meets his chest. " 'So sorry for the confusion, please accept these ridiculous gifts and titles.' Suckling calves and lordships and the like. The usual things." He shrugs, tugging Merlin around until his weight is satisfactorily redistributed. Merlin smiles against the soft expanse of Arthur's neck. They do this every night, pulling and shifting and grumbling until they're both situated, and it already feels like a comfortable ritual, something that they do even if they've already been lying down for hours, just because it's their routine.

"Is Gwen going to have to go back with Leodegrance?" Merlin asks quietly. Arthur turns to look down at him, tilting his head back slightly so Merlin has more room to mouth gently at the smooth column of his throat. "I think it'd kill Lancelot, and her too."

He ducks forward just enough to kiss Merlin on the forehead, and his lips graze softly over the line of Merlin's brow as he murmurs, "Leodegrance is kind. I doubt he'd take her from her home when she so clearly wants to stay."

"Okay," Merlin says, and tilts his chin up for a proper kiss. "I'm tired."

"Hmm," Arthur says thoughtfully. "And I'm just now thinking I'd like to wear you out a bit more before we go to sleep." His hands are big and warm, spanning Merlin's back, and Merlin lets out an involuntary shiver, leaning back against the touch.

After a moment of this he stretches, looking speculatively up at Arthur's mischievous smile. "What'd you have in mind?"

Arthur doesn't answer, just slides down the length of Merlin's body, mouthing kisses all the way.

The next morning dawns ugly and damp, the courtyards grey and wet with an unforgiving spring rainfall. It seems as though it's been going on for a long while; the earth looks spongy, and the sky is a soggy, dishwater color, disrupted by occasional bouts of laboured, anaemic thunder and pale, spiny lightning. Merlin takes one look and burrows back into Arthur's arms, lifting them back over his shoulders and tucking his cold nose against Arthur's chin. "It's horrible out," he mumbles. "Lets stay in bed for forever."

Arthur chuckles drowsily, raising a clumsy hand to rub at his eyes. "Yeah," he says thickly. "Okay. And you should definitely fuck me."

"Really?" Merlin says. He rises up on his elbows to look at Arthur. He looks endearingly dazed and rumpled, his tangled hair impossibly bright against the dull weave of the linens.

"You're surprised that I want you to take me?" Arthur says. He sounds totally nonchalant, and looks it too, one eyebrow raised and his lips pursed until he spoils it with a yawn. "Have you suddenly acquired amnesia?"

"Not that part," Merlin says, leaning over him to reach for the oil. Arthur makes a soft noise at the contact, and Merlin savours the slide, pressing down against him for a moment before continuing with his original plan. "Here, just move your legs a bit." He slips down between them, brushing a kiss to the back of Arthur's knee. "The part about staying in bed. You don't have to lead drills?"

"The knights need a rest," Arthur says. His eyes are squeezed closed, now, and Merlin has to stop for a moment and just watch Arthur's unfettered expression of pleasure, the way his mouth opens in a little 'o' as he pushes down against Merlin's fingers in search of more.

" _Now_ , Merlin," he says impatiently.

"Okay, okay," Merlin says, and he can't help but laugh at Arthur's authoritative tone. "You're pushy today."

"I'm always pushy," Arthur says, and then his breath catches as Merlin presses in on a laugh, leaning to kiss him. "And you love me," he adds. Merlin is pleased to note that his voice has gone husky.

"Mm, I do love you," he agrees, catching up Arthur's hand and kissing each of his perfect knuckles, his fingers callus-rough against Merlin's mouth. Merlin likes that, the strange, simple practicality of Arthur's hands, something that Merlin can always count on to be just the same against his own hand, his mouth, his cock. It's nice, comforting.

"I love you too," Arthur says, sighing. It sounds almost breathy, almost as though he's giving up some great secret, and Merlin just has to lean forward and kiss him, lest he burst from the sweetness of it all.

Arthur is true to his word, and they stay in bed until the vague grey of the stormy afternoon begins to fade into darkness. Merlin drags himself up regretfully when Arthur pulls back the covers, stepping over the remains of the luncheon they'd shared and heading to where his clothes are tossed over the back of his chair. Merlin follows him, reaching to fix his collar. "Do we really have to go?" he asks hopefully. "We could have Lancelot tell us about it later, or Leon."

Arthur almost looks as though he's considering it, for a moment. "No," he says finally. "My father will expect me to be present. It wouldn't look right, on such an apparently important occasion."

"It was worth a try," Merlin says ruefully, dragging an appreciative hand over Arthur's ribcage. "This looks good on you."

Predictably, Arthur blushes, and Merlin rides the high of that lovely, bashful expression all the way to the audience hall.

Inside there are a number of people present already, and more are milling in and pressing toward the front of the crowd. It seems like a smattering of everyone in the kingdom, the normal rules of things forgotten as nobles crowd against peasants- long, trained gowns catching under hobnailed boots, rough wool against silk. The hall is uncomfortably warm, the air stagnant with the unpleasant odour of too many bodies too close together. Merlin feels a brief wave of vertigo, catching himself just before an undignified sway. It feels almost like having had too much ale, everything heavy and indistinct and constantly shifting.

Thankfully, Arthur seems to have little interest in being toward the front; the crowd is tightest there, and no doubt the atmosphere is even less inviting. Instead, he chooses to move deep under the vaulted arches of the hall. It's darker there, and somewhat cooler, and since it doesn't afford as desirable a view of the king's throne there are far fewer people. Arthur leans gently against a column, and Merlin stands beside him, watching the hall fill and trying forcibly to rid himself of his lingering discomfort.

Seated upon his throne, Uther is resplendent in fine leathers, brightly bedecked in more jewels than Merlin thinks he's ever seen in one place. Usually, his dress is simple, at least as practical as it is regal and meant to convey military might before anything else. This is something else entirely, though, akin to the tales Merlin heard back in Ealdor as a child. He remembers stories of the old days, when kings and queens glittered with riches and magic both, crowns woven through with blossoms meant to protect against the fey people, to identify untruths, or to ward off illnesses. Uther looks as though he's stepped right out of one of those tales, and it makes Merlin uncomfortable. Of all the speeches Uther has given, and of all the dignitaries he's entertained, this is something different. This is something Merlin has never seen before, something all about the glory and wealth of the court.

He's thankful when Arthur taps his wrist, drawing him out of his uncomfortable musings. He gestures, and Merlin follows the line of his finger, catching sight of Gwen looking nervously over at them. She's lovely in a gown of pale, misty blue, her hair caught up in some complicated pattern of braids and curls, a robe of shimmering cream flowing out behind her in a long train. She's surrounded by what appears to be an army of handmaidens, so her clothes are unmarred by the milling crowd. Within this cocoon, she looks beautiful, and very, very unhappy. Merlin raises a hand to her, trying to tell her something, anything, with his eyes. He doesn't know what he'd say even if he could get close enough to do so, but it seems as though he has to at least try to tell her that everything will be all right. Leodegrance won't make her go away. He's a good man. He's not sure whether he'd be trying to convince Gwen, or himself.

Uther doesn't make them wait much longer. Once the crowd seems somewhat settled, he stands, towering above the crowd on his dais. He looks tall and proud, and for once, younger than he is, rather than older. It's an astonishing change. "My people," Uther begins. "By now, I'm certain that word of the most honourable King Leodegrance and his tidings has stretched to all corners of this kingdom." He pauses, smiling wryly as the crowd murmurs in rueful assent. "I confess I was troubled to have played unknowing witness to such a circumstance, and I considered at length how I might begin to amend the insult to the King and the most honourable Lady Guinevere." He pauses, as though gathering his thoughts. Merlin can't help feeling grudgingly impressed. The king is entirely in control of this situation, despite what the crowd might think. He's directing them masterfully, and they're quite unwitting participants.

Arthur shifts beside him, murmuring, "I hate when he does this. It never feels right." _Well_ , Merlin amends to himself, _most of them unwitting_. Arthur is of course far cleverer than even he lets on, and it makes Merlin's chest swell up with pride, realizing that. Yet it's only a fleeting moment because Arthur sounds nervous, uncomfortable, and he's leaning awkwardly closer, close enough that their fingers are gently brushing. Merlin presses back against the contact, as much as he dares. This corner of the hall is only dimly lit, but they're far from being completely alone.

"I'm pleased to say that my decision was well received by King Leodegrance," Uther continues. "And so we shall waste no time in bringing it to pass. I think you will all be pleased to hear that in two days hence, the Lady Guinevere shall be joined in marriage to my son, Prince Arthur Pendragon."

After that, Uther keeps talking, and almost everyone else in the hall joins in, everything from polite whispering to outright shouting. Merlin can't concentrate on any of it, though, nor on the strange tightness in his own chest. All he can see, all he can think of, is how Arthur has gone bloodless, shock etched deep into his unmoving features. He's standing so still that he could almost be carved from stone, and suddenly Merlin can't help but touch him, driven by the irrational fear that his hand will encounter something cold and un-alive.

It's just a gentle touch against Arthur's palm, but it seems to jolt him out of the initial shock, the disbelieving expression replaced by one that makes Arthur look like he might suddenly be sick. It's clear that for once, Arthur hasn't done anything nobly self-sacrificing, hasn't hidden something away from Merlin in order to protect him. He had no idea that this was going to happen. Somehow, the thought isn't as comforting as it ought to be.

"I'll talk to him," Arthur says, finally. His fingers close around Merlin's, white-knuckled. "He'll see reason."

"Arthur," Merlin says softly. "I know this is a shock." He fumbles for something to say, trying to calm his own breathing for the sake of Arthur's. "But- but maybe this isn't so bad, not really." He rubs a hand over his eyes, thinking. "You know Gwen, she knows," he coughs, glancing around. "She knows us, and it would just be holding hands at feasts and having adjoining rooms, wouldn't it?"

Arthur grips his hand harder, the pressure close to painful. "You don't understand," he says, and his voice comes out gritty, sounding scraped raw. "My father desperately wants me to have heirs, He talks about it constantly. My mother-" he cuts off, swallowing a breath that's almost a sob. "He's absolutely mad over it, over me doing what he truly couldn't. We'll be expected to have children, loads of them, and if we don't, my father'll go even more insane. We'd have doctors torturing us, it will be a disgrace to the family name. Lancelot would cuckold me, and if he got her with child and anyone could prove it wasn't mine, it'd be a death sentence for Gwen. It will be the same if she didn't conceive at all, my father would surely call it sorcery." He takes a quick, shaky breath. "I'll talk to him."

Merlin nods weakly, squeezing Arthur's hand. "Talk to him," he whispers encouragingly, even though he really doesn't think there's much hope.

Arthur nods, and his eyes look painfully bright, his jaw carefully set as though he's just barely holding himself together. He gazes at Merlin for a moment, and Merlin can see everything that's going through his head, fear and sorrow and horror. There's something strangely touching about the way Arthur lets him see all of it, trusts him to bear it all. Then he's stepping forward, and even though he really shouldn't with all these people here, Merlin can't help but sigh and lean into Arthur's fiercely tight embrace.

Afterward, as Arthur begins the tiresome fight to push through the crowd to his father, Merlin retreats in search of Lancelot. It doesn't take long. He slips out of the hall, out into the courtyard, and there he is, slumped over on the steps as though he's lost the will to take so much as one more step. It's shocking to see him like this, all broken and crumpled. Even when he's relaxed, there's something in Lancelot that never lets him forget that he's everything a knight ought to be. Merlin has noticed it on countless occasions, when Lancelot is caught up in the most mundane of tasks. There's always something there in him, noble and honourable and proud, and now it's gone. Now he just looks tired.

"Hi," Merlin says, and lowers himself down onto the step beside Lancelot.

When Lancelot turns to him, there's a strange look in his eyes, something almost feverish, and his voice comes out sounding almost urgent. "Can you turn back time?" Lancelot asks.

"What?" Merlin asks, taken slightly aback. "I mean- no. Not yet. Why?"

Lancelot shrugs heavily. "I just thought- I don't know. I waited too long. Perhaps if I'd asked her sooner, if we had already been married when this happened."

"Oh, Lancelot," Merlin says, and even his own voice comes out more tired than he'd expected. "I'm sorry. Even if I could, it certainly wouldn't stop Uther. Under the rules of the new religion, he could declare a marriage unlawful if it suited him."

"I know," Lancelot says wretchedly. "But we could have run off together before it happened, started a new life together. Both of us are used to living simply, and between us we've plenty of skills we could've used to earn our keep. We could've gone far away, so far that maybe nobody would have bothered to try and find us."

"Lancelot, stop," Merlin says firmly. "Saying what-if won't change anything, it'll eat up at you inside. We just need to think. There has to be a way this can work."

"It _can't_ ," Lancelot says, and Merlin has never heard him sound so desolate. "A married woman? Always having to skulk in corners, knowing I've made a fool of Arthur? Never being able to share a home with her, nor sit behind her at a feast, or go and listen to the tales together when the villages light a bonfire? Not even those simplest of things? I can't."

Merlin opens his mouth to contest at least the Arthur part, but Lancelot silences him by repeating firmly "Merlin, I can't."

"I know you can't," Merlin admits quietly, and it's true. It's a horrible, wretched awareness that sits deep in his chest, that Lancelot can't do this, nor can Arthur or Gwen or even himself. That they're good people all of them, in one way or another, and that thinking about such a life makes him feel as though something's snapping deep within his chest.

There's nothing left to say, so Merlin just leans in and puts his arms around Lancelot, awkward and inadequate, and clutches him close as Lance begins to sob against his chest.

They end up in Arthur's chambers somehow, Merlin doesn't really remember how. At some point, he must have done it, and started a fire in the hearth and tossed a few blankets down before it. All he really recalls is sitting in front of it, though, watching it burn first higher and then lower again, Lancelot dozing fitfully beside him. At some point, the light recedes completely, and then he watches the fire cast deep, ominous shadows.

Arthur slips in at some point that must be late in the evening, and though he doesn't say anything, his sad, exhausted expression makes it quite clear that his talk with Uther was not a success. Merlin watches over his shoulder as Arthur moves tiredly about the room, stripping off his boots with the air of a much older man. Merlin's neck is stiff, and there's a deep ache at the small of his back. He almost welcomes it, the sensations soothingly familiar and mundane.

After a few moments, Arthur joins Merlin at the fire, lowering himself to the floor behind him and pulling Merlin back against his chest. Merlin sighs and leans into it, welcoming the change of position as well as the silent comfort. Arthur sighs too, and they stay like that for a long time, watching the fire slowly die. It's been cold for a long time when they finally slide down onto their sides, and even then, sleep doesn't come for quite a while, at least for Merlin. Arthur is still, his eyes closed, but Merlin doesn't think that he does much sleeping, either.

Merlin slips away to see Gwen at dawn, Arthur and Lancelot both crumpled before the hearth, finally truly asleep. Gwen's already awake, pacing fitfully before her window. Merlin sits down on the edge of her bed and watches, feeling terribly helpless.

"How is he?" Gwen asks. "Not good, I'm sure. But how?"

Merlin glances up. Gwen has gone still, and she turns, looking over her shoulder at him, fixing him with a piercing stare. She looks nothing like her usual self, completely unashamed of her fine dress, standing straight and tall and looking impatient and iron-willed.

"He's trying to be strong," Merlin says finally. "But it's killing him, too."

"Of course it is," Gwen says bitterly, and cuts off her own words with a harsh laugh, an ugly sound that rings in the still morning air. "This is our last day."

"Don't say that," Merlin tries.

"I'll say what I please," Gwen shoots back. "You know the herbs that keep a child from taking root. Bring them to me." Her tone brooks no protests, and her gait matches it as she strides over to a delicate writing desk, lavender cuttings caught up in a vase atop it. There are flowers all over her room, from peonies to irises, but the lavender's what catches his eye, slender and graceful just like Gwen, and part of the recipe she's requested, too. "Give Lancelot this note," Gwen says, crossing the room to proffer it to him. "Get him here tonight. I don't care how."

Merlin stares down at the folded scrap of parchment for a moment before reluctantly accepting it. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," she says curtly, and squeezes her eyes shut for a long moment. Merlin steps forward and drops a hand to her shoulder, searching for something to say. In the end, they settle on a hug, too, the only thing that seems to work for any of them, lately. It lasts for a long, silent span of time before Merlin turns around and leaves.

Merlin makes the potion himself. It's not a difficult concoction, and he doesn't want to involve Gaius in yet another unsavoury task. This isn't illegal in quite the way that magic is, but it's certainly frowned upon, one of those no good-solution situations in which women seem to so often find themselves. Merlin has made this draught for more than one frightened maid, women who came to him after having seen a noble's eye lingering, who know that they'll soon be called to attend him in that deepest, longest part of the night. It seems a horribly inadequate thing to offer, but Merlin has always supposed it better than nothing.

The ingredients are simple, just pennyroyal and rue, crushed up with Gwen's lavender, and Merlin's mind wanders as he mixes them together. He can't shake off the memory of Gwen's face when she asked for the potion, her hardened, angry expression. It was something he'd never seen from her before, something cold and cutting, and it's awful to know just exactly what it takes to remake a person as kind and gentle as Gwen. It feels almost like seeing something he shouldn't have, watching someone undress without their knowledge, and now he can't get it out of his head. Merlin shivers. Once he was comforted by the smell of herbs, neatly crushed between the mortar and twisting pestle, but now he just feels sick.

It's almost frightening, how easily the plan works out. Merlin delivers the potion and the message, helps Lancelot into his livery once again, and goes ahead to make sure the hall is empty before Lancelot goes into Gwen's room. Afterward, he can't bring himself to stay outside, and Merlin flees to Arthur's chambers, watching the hearth shadows once again. He can't get comfortable, too warm when he leans forward, chilly when he leans back.

Behind him, Arthur paces countless circles around the room, his boots dragging slow and heavy upon the stone. The sound is almost hypnotising, and it's been going on for so long that Merlin is almost surprised that when he looks down at Arthur's feet, the stone of the floor is unmarred. He'd half expected Arthur to be wearing a path into the flagstones, marking his progress.

It reminds Merlin of a pilgrimage he and his mother had taken several times each year, along with the rest of the village. The most important time was when the days became short and cold, in the deep of winter, when people warned that more creatures were out causing mischief, and everyone hung up scraps of precious iron and wound holly around their doors, and laid out saucers of milk and breadcrumbs. Then, they'd all travel to a place where the stones laid as if overturned by a human hand, and a hill rose up out of the meadow, looking vast and ancient as they all stared silently up at it. They'd climb a winding path to the very top, and leave gifts and prayers for the gods, whisper their fears and their hopes, and feel the wind whip through their hair and the snow catch on their reddened cheeks. As a child, Merlin had been shocked to learn that the path was carved from nothing but countless years of people making the same journey up the hill, winding in the very same manner. He'd wondered how long it must have taken, and who'd done it first, who had known to walk in just that way, to start a tradition that would last so long that its beginnings were lost to dark, murky time. Now, as Arthur walks, he can picture that journey perfectly, and Arthur upon it, wild and older than he could possibly truly be. His vision goes a little fuzzy, hazy as he squints, drawing up old memories, and he can almost see the rest of the procession, following Arthur's slow, deliberate steps.

Then he realises it's not a memory at all, or his imagination. It's Morgause, and Arthur sees her too, her hair flowing long and wild about her face as she shimmers into half-being.

"Emrys," she says, and it comes out hurried and brisk, but with something that could almost be an undercurrent of fear. Arthur draws the sword he's still wearing, and Merlin winces.

"Arthur, no," he says quietly. "She's not- what I told you about her? She's not."

Arthur took everything else so easily, the magic, their love. He's forgiven so much more than Merlin ever expected him to, but this is something else entirely, this greatest of betrayals. Morgause, the truth about his mother; Merlin wonders how much Arthur will now suspect.

Arthur looks over at him, his confusion turning to hurt. "But you told me, you said she was evil..." He trails off, watching Merlin's face fall. It's all the admission that's needed, and Merlin winces as Arthur's face goes hard, closed off. He's no doubt remembering the vision of his mother in a new light, the fight with Uther that Merlin had stopped with his desperate lies. Arthur swings out at Morgause, uncharacteristically wildly.

The blade cuts a harmless swath through the space that Morgause isn't truly occupying. "No time for that," Morgause says impatiently. "Mordred's gone. Morgana is having visions of Gwen. She's in danger. I don't know how, but he's going to do something, and soon."

"What?" Merlin says slowly. "But how? Why? What would Mordred want with Gwen?"

"I don't know," Morgause says darkly. "But it isn't really about Gwen at all, you know that. It's about you." Her voice goes rough. "She'll just be a casualty. You must go to her immediately, protect her."

"Okay," Merlin says shakily, but Arthur is already moving, flinging open the door and grasping Merlin by the wrist, pulling him along in Arthur's wake.

The halls are strangely deserted, none of the usual scurrying servants or lingering nobles. Arthur sets a quick pace, his strides long enough that Merlin has to struggle to keep up, his wrist rubbing raw against Arthur's unforgiving grasp. More than once, he has to fight to keep his balance, as Arthur strides around a corner, pulling Merlin after him.

Merlin is barefoot, his heels slapping against the cold flagstones as he hurries along. It seems almost absurd, the idea of thinking he could possibly be successful at rescuing someone when he's not even wearing any boots, and Merlin has to choke back a pained laugh at the thought.

It dies in his throat as they round the corner. It's thronged with people, surrounding the door to Gwen's chambers. A few of the knights are there, Leon blinking sleepily, Gaheris holding up a terse hand to keep a crowed of men in untucked shirts at bay. The door to Gwen's chambers stands open, and as Arthur slows, working his way through the mass of people, Merlin hears a high-pitched voice ring out from inside the room. The words are clear, almost bell-like, and it carries easily throughout the hall, hanging crystalline and pure, ringing in his ears.

"Whore!" It's unquestionably Mordred, that terrible, vicious child, and oh god, they're too late.

After that, it's only Arthur's stony countenance that keeps Merlin from lashing out with fists and magic both. There are a number of moments in which he'd like to: when Mordred emerges smug and triumphant in Camelot livery, when Gwen is dragged out behind him, fighting her way into a tearing nightgown as she claws at her captors, Lancelot following close behind, four knights fighting to restrain him, looking broken and defiant at once. The worst of it, though, is somehow Arthur, the moment in which Merlin can see all the emotions flitting across his face, and then the moment where he forcibly closes himself off from it all, going still and dangerously calm. It's that old, dutiful expression again, and Merlin has to look away, focusing on the feeling of the stone beneath his toes. It doesn't seem so funny, anymore. Mordred looks a little older, still small but clearly beginning to grow into a youth. His eyes haven't changed at all, though. They're still terribly cold.

There's a surging procession to the audience hall, then, almost a mob as more people take up Mordred's cry of whore and repeat it over and over again until Merlin's eyes tear up from the sheer ugliness of it all. This isn't supposed to happen, he thinks, as they're swept along in the crowd. Merlin's supposed to save the day, or Arthur is, if it requires smiting. It isn't supposed to be like this, so plain and human and awful for no real reason. Mordred scarcely had to use any magic at all, just bored, spiteful people who'd been denied any real gossip about Gwen ever since Leodegrance's announcement. Merlin sobs once, furious at his own helplessness. If Arthur hears him, he doesn't comment on it.

In the hall, there are a few moments of restless shouting, the crowd pushing closer to Gwen and Lancelot as the knights shout and gesture and try furiously to keep them at bay. Then Uther emerges from his private audience room, and everything goes silent. There's no beneficent royalty about him now. He looks every inch the warlord, brow furrowed as he strides along, the steward scurrying after him, whispering frantically into his ear. Uther nods once, briskly, and the man falls away from him as Uther walks forward, the crowd parting as if cleaved in two. He glances downward just for a moment, once he's seated, and Merlin thinks he looks very tired and very old.

Uther's voice rings out clearly, though, strong and powerful. "Where is the boy?"

Mordred is pushed forward, and for one desperate moment Merlin thinks that perhaps Uther will recognize him as the druid's boy, the one he'd ordered killed once already. He doesn't, though, whether because of the hour, the depth of his own thoughts, or perhaps just that all peasants seem to look the same to him. Mordred has grown, too, still a child but not so young and fragile as he once looked. "Tell me what you saw, boy," Uther says, and Mordred drops his head in perfect subservience, clasping his small hands together.

"Sire, I am sorry if I've done wrong," he begins, with the perfect note of timidness. "I was delivering fresh linens to the Lady, and when I knocked, I thought I heard voices. I thought I was supposed to go in." He's actually trembling, and Merlin wonders if it's just an act, or if its Mordred's glee that he's trying so hard to contain.

"Well," Uther says proddingly. "What did you see?"

Mordred looks just slightly upward. "It wouldn't be proper to say, sire. But they were making a fool of the prince, sire, and I found this" he reaches into a belt pouch and pulls out a tiny vial. Merlin's potion. The scent will be undeniable. "They were _together_ , sire, and I couldn't help it, I cried out. Please, I didn't mean to do anything wrong." He sounds young, fearful, and terribly proper, every note of his performance perfect.

"You did nothing wrong, boy," Uther says. "You may go, but stay nearby, in case we have need of further questioning." Mordred nods, and slips back into the crowd.

Uther surveys the room for a moment before speaking. "Sir Gereint, you came to the boy's call. What did you see?"

The knight steps forward, glancing nervously over at Lancelot, and then at Gwen. "I saw nothing," he says quietly, and Lancelot shoots him a terrible, grateful look.

"I do not tolerate lies," Uther says coldly. "Ten lashes, and then let us hear your story again. Sir Leon. What did you see?"

Leon's voice is stronger, more confident, and he stares straight at Arthur as he speaks. "I saw nothing, sire. I suspect this child had a particularly vivid nightmare and awoke confused."

Uther makes a face somewhat akin to a snarl, and his voice is ugly when he says, "I will not tolerate such games. Ten lashes for your insubordination. Sir Gaheris, step forward."

Gaheris does, his expression stony as he stares up at Uther. He's still got a bit of a limp from his calf injury, but it doesn't make him look any less proud. In the far end of the hallway, Leon begins to struggle, shouting out something that is thankfully muffled by another knight's hand clapped over his mouth. Gaheris doesn't turn to him, but Merlin sees the slightest of tremors shift through him.

"What did you see?" Uther asks, and Gaheris' eyes fall shut as he begins to answer, but before he can, Arthur steps forward, pushing him roughly out of the way.

"I was there," Arthur says harshly. "It's true, all of it. I'm your witness."

It's good that Gaheris didn't have the chance to earn a lashing, because he's the one who catches Merlin when he topples.

Merlin doesn't see Arthur that night. He has a vague recollection of Gaheris clapping a hand over his mouth, another of his vision going hazy. It's not enough to block out the sound of Lancelot's piercing cry, a high, keening note of despair, nor Gwen's snarl. Especially, he can't escape the sound of Uther's tired, angry voice as he exiles Lancelot, and sentences Gwen to burn.

He'd like to think that he attempted something terribly heroic, ignored his own better instincts and sent up a whirlwind in the great hall, or perhaps a vast, roaring fire. Really, though, Merlin doesn't do anything at all, anything except for thrashing helplessly as a handful of knights wrestle him out of the hall. They're halfway to Arthur's room before Merlin realises it and shakes his head. "No, not here," he says quietly, and Bors shrugs and points the way toward Gaius's chambers and Merlin's old room. It says a lot about just how discreet Merlin and Arthur aren't, but this isn't the time to think about that.

There's something blessedly familiar about the workroom, all the crisp smells of medicines, the neat rows of jars and vials keeping everything so tidy and ordered. The room is dark and empty; the few stubs of tallow that are scattered about the room are solid and cold. Gaius is no doubt trying to do what little he can to talk to Uther, even though Merlin knows with a hollow, painful certainty that it won't work.

"Fire," Bors says gruffly, and turns away to kneel before the hearth. Gaheris slips away too, but returns a moment later bearing a blanket, a rough woolen thing that must have lain crumpled on Merlin's unused bed for ages. Gaheris draws up two chairs in front of the fire, and gently pulls Merlin over, wrapping the blanket around him. He shares a glance with Bors, and the Bors quietly takes a seat by the door, looking carefully away.

There's a long stretch of silence, in which Merlin knows Gaheris is watching him, but can't quite bring himself to do anything about it, to tell him to leave or to beg him not to go.

He turns, finally, when the silence becomes too oppressive to bear any longer. "I-" It's all he can get out. He's no idea what words would be appropriate, what he's even allowed to say. He doesn't know what Gaheris already knows.

"Poor lad," Gaheris says, and he sounds so very tired. "So young, both of you. Too young for this."

"You-" Merlin tries, then falters, starting again. "I don't know why he did that. He's so angry with me, but why did he do that to _them_?"

Gaheris sighs, dropping a hand over Merlin's forearm. His hands are big, rough with calluses, and the weight feels pleasantly grounding. "You poor, poor lad." He sighs again. "It's not right, is it?" Merlin doesn't know exactly what Gaheris is talking about, but he can feel the weight of it, something Gaheris has known too, and then he understands.

"It's easier for us," Gaheris says quietly, "Always out on patrol, no heirs or kingdoms, nothing beyond our next hour. Not for you, poor lad." He makes a frustrated sound, deep in his throat. "Leon is better at this than me."

"No," Merlin says, and it comes out surprisingly firmly. "No, thank you." He curls his fingers into a fist, his forearm shifting under Gaheris' steady hand, and manages to look up at him with a watery smile. "Really, thanks."

" 'Course," Gaheris says awkwardly, and they sit in a slightly easier silence after that.

Gaius returns later in the night, and when he does, he has Leon and Gereint with him, both moving with slow, pained steps. Gaheris is up in an instant, mapping careful fingers over Leon's face before stepping closer to let Leon fall forward into the bracket of his arms. He stumbles awkwardly backward into the room, supporting Leon's weight, and Merlin can see him looking down anxiously at Leon's bare back, striped in angry red. Bors steps up and offers Gereint his arm, which he takes, leaning heavily.

"Really," Gaius says, looking on at Gaheris and Leon. "It's a wonder any laws at all get followed in this kingdom." The look in his eyes is fond, though, and Merlin feels a strange, powerful gratefulness for it, for Gaius being so unconditionally kind and understanding even when the weight of so many sorrows threatens to snap the bowing curve of his back.

"I'll help," Merlin says solidly, and Gaius doesn't protest as Merlin reaches for the appropriate jars.

It's that darkest part of the night by the time the men have gone, but Merlin feels strangely restless, unable to contemplate sleep, despite the ache of exhaustion that pulls at his limbs. Gaius is pressed heavily into his chair, but he looks unable to relax, too, tapping almost unconsciously at the scarred wood of the chair's arm. Merlin spends a few moments trying to straighten up the workroom, but it doesn't really need it, and finally he gives in and pulls up a chair at Gaius' side.

"Now then," Gaius said. "Are you going to talk to me?"

Merlin nods, curling around in his chair until his legs are tucked up tightly. "Arthur's angry with me. Morgause came to us to warn us about Gwen, and I guess he figured out that I'd been lying when I said Morgause was wrong about Arthur's mother. You saw the rest."

"Ah," Gaius says slowly, and leans back against his chair. "Merlin, that herbal concoction, the one for the ache in my hands. Would you prepare a cup?"

"Of course," Merlin says, and rises to do so. The familiar motions are a comfort, and Gaius seems to think so too, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the top of his chair as Merlin works.

After the concoction is made, Merlin passes it off to Gaius, returning to his own chair. Gaius looks down at it owlishly, taking a small sip. "You couldn't have chosen a more difficult person to love," he says, finally.

Merlin tucks the blanket back around himself, looking deliberately away. "I didn't _choose_ to love anyone at all," Merlin says, but he's too tired to say it with any real bite.

"No," Gaius concedes, "I suppose you didn't, at that. You two were drawn to each other, almost from the moment you met, I believe."

"Yeah," Merlin says tiredly. "Yeah, I suppose we were." He's caught somewhere between mortification and relief, the awkwardness of talking about this to Gaius at war with the feeling of talking to someone else who knows about his magic, about the true depth of his devotion toward Arthur.

"It would never have been easy," Gaius says quietly. "Even without Guinevere, Uther would have insisted Arthur be married off to a suitable woman."

"Don't talk about it like it's over!" Merlin snarls, and maybe he's got the energy to sound venomous, after all.

"My boy," Gaius says, and now he sounds old, almost frail. "These things are never over so very easily."

He doesn't say anything for a long time, and when Merlin next looks over, Gaius is asleep.

In the morning, Merlin asks a few terse questions of the maid behind him at the well, and learns that Gwen's execution has been set for the following day. He also learns that Leodegrance has made a bid for her sentence to be changed to exile and that upon Uther's denial, he has left Camelot. It doesn't bode well for the until-now favourable relations between the kingdoms, but at the moment that's the least of Merlin's concerns. Besides, it's not at all a surprise that Uther would stand his ground. He hates to be seen as indecisive, and Gwen is guilty of high treason, even if she and Arthur weren't yet married.

Gwen's cell is surrounded by guards, so Merlin abandons any tentative plans of immediate rescue. They're so close, even, that Merlin can't lean in and whisper anything to her about it. He hopes it's clear, anyway, that he'll do whatever it takes to get her out. Gwen's in her blue gown again, but it's rumpled and covered in hay. At least they did her the courtesy of bringing her something to wear over her shift. Merlin assumes that was a result of her new-found status. She's huddled in the corner of the cell, and for a moment, Merlin thinks she might be sleeping. She glances up as he approaches, though, and in the swift, fluid motion, Merlin can see that she is completely alert. He wonders if he's whom Gwen was expecting, or if she was hoping for someone else.

"Gwen," he says softly, and laces his fingers through the bars, casting his gaze down at the hay-strewn floor of the cell. "I'm sorry."

At that, she stands, looking shockingly graceful despite the state of her garments. The cell is not large, so she is close enough to press her hands over his in just a few steps. "Don't," she says firmly. "This isn't anyone's fault." She sounds confident, and for a moment Merlin's surprised by it. He remembers her in the aftermath of her father's death, though, quiet and strong despite her terrible sadness, and suddenly it isn't so surprising at all. Gwen's solidity is unassuming, unobtrusive, and she is nothing if not subtle. That doesn't mean it's not there, though, and for some reason, the thought comforts Merlin.

"I'll do anything I can," he murmurs, and Gwen squeezes his hands a little tighter.   
"I know you will," she says softly. "But Merlin, no matter what happens, please promise me something."

"I- of course," Merlin says, glancing up at her. Gwen so rarely asks for anything.   
She leans in close, catching his eye. "Talk to Arthur." She holds up a hand at the protesting sound Merlin makes, stopping it in his throat. "What you two have, it's too important to waste. Even I know that. I can see that you're fighting, and whatever it is, fix it." She hesitates, letting out a shaky breath. "For me."

Merlin's own exhale is closer to a sob, and in that moment he can't bring himself to stay quiet. He glances quickly around at the guards then leans in as though to kiss Gwen's cheek, his lips barely moving as he whispers, "I have magic. I'm coming to help you."

Gwen pulls back, her features conveying nothing but a tired sort of acceptance. "You really are extraordinary," she says quietly, and then, a little louder, "Go to Arthur. I'll see you tomorrow, if not before."

"Before," Merlin says firmly, and squeezes her hands tightly before he goes.

Back in the workroom, Merlin contemplates telling Gaius his plan. He's not sure he'll react well, though, so Merlin says nothing at all, instead trying to keep busy with as many mindless tasks as possible, he and Gaius walking quiet circles around each other as they reach for various herbs and pots. Gaius sets out an evening meal for them both, and Merlin is strangely touched by it. It feels like he came to Camelot decades ago, even though it has only been a few years. This jolts him right back into the place of frightened, excited newcomer, unaware of destiny, of the love that would eat up his heart until there was scarcely room for anything else, so lost that he didn't even know how to find the kitchens. Age isn't something he thinks about often; he knows more than many people ever will, and he suspects he won't grow old in quite the same way other people do, but this makes him feel unbelievably young.

"The spice is good," he tells Gaius, and it's true. The food tastes sharper, the seasonings stronger. It's a sign that the lingering winter is finally ending, access to spring crops, and Merlin realises he must not have been tasting his food for days, to have failed to notice this. Gaius leans back in his chair, and doesn't eat much, no more than his first plate, but Merlin eats all the rest, knowing it will make Gaius happy.

He'd thought it would be easy to stay awake. It seems all he's done lately is stare blankly at walls or hearthstones, waiting in vain for sleep to come. However tonight, he finds himself fighting to keep his eyes open, even while he's still standing. He tries to pace back and forth, but the weariness weighs him down, too many sleepless nights finally catching up to him at this worst of times. The old stories and songs have lead him to believe that one should be able to stay awake in times of need, just out of the gravity of the situation and one's feelings about it. It doesn't seem to be true right now, though, and finally Merlin gives in and collapses into his chair, allowing himself a short rest. He can't go to Gwen for a few hours, anyway.

When he next wakes, the first thing he thinks is _Arthur_ , and he reaches out wildly for a moment, before realizing he's alone. In that aching moment of remembrance, he realises that he has no recollection of moving to his bed. His last memory is of sitting down in his chair, and then- _oh god_. He leaps up, shrugging off his blanket, and tears out of his room. The sunlight is already pouring in through the unshuttered windows, and he'd told Gwen he'd be there to help her, but he wasn't. He has an awful vision of Gwen waiting for him, staying awake and still hopeful as he slept, slowly coming to the realisation that Merlin wasn't coming to help her, that she was going to the stake. He's tugging his boots on before he can even think about it, half stumbling as he lunges through the door and out into the hall.

Again the halls are eerily deserted, but this time Merlin already knows why. He's proven correct as he nears the courtyard, for he can hear the shifting sounds of the crowd, voices rising up in a harsh swell. There's shouting, laughter, the distinctive sound of children playing hand-clapping games. It could almost be a carnival, Merlin thinks, and has to work to keep down the bile rising sour in his throat.

The pyre is still being assembled as Merlin slips out the door, and Gwen is nowhere to be seen. For one glorious moment Merlin feels a rush of hope, already half-turning to run back toward the dungeon. There might still be time to free her, and if he has to stun a few guards in the process, so be it. If he can't, Merlin will just have to figure something else out. In that moment, though, he hears roughshod wheels rumbling over the cobblestones, and with a sick rush of certainty, he knows he's too late. Turning, he sees the cart trundling along, the crowd staring up at it, where Gwen is imprisoned behind its wooden bars. The cart moves incredibly slowly, leaving plenty of time for the crowd to jeer and toss things at it.

Gwen's in her nightshift again, startlingly white against the hay and untreated wood. She's seated, with her knees pulled up and her head resting oh her forearms, but she's looking straight ahead, not hiding from the gazes or the taunts of the crowd. It's so absolutely wrong, to see Gwen like this, to see people taking such pleasure in tormenting her, chanting for her- her- Merlin can't bring himself to even think of what's going to happen, and yet the images spring to his mind unbidden, the smoke obscuring Gwen's tousled curls, her shift going grey with soot. Merlin can't think of it, can't think of anything at all lest he think of _that_. Is he any better, though? These people can't do anything about her situation, not one of them could step forward and save her. There's a row of knights at least three men thick, all around the pyre. No, the only person who can do anything about this is Merlin, and in that moment, he knows he has to.

Gaius has taught Merlin something about learning with books, about searching for a magical solution within the neatly ordered lines of text. Still, in times of need it isn't books that serve Merlin best, but his own instincts. This is what he calls upon now, thinking of Gwen's freedom, of whatever it may take to achieve that end. He reaches deep within for it, that familiar feeling of warmth building deep within his chest.

Nothing happens. He can feel the magic, but he can't pull it to the fore, can't even concentrate on it directly. It's as though it slithers away from his questing thoughts, unreachable. He tries again, then once more, cold all over. He must just be doing something wrong. He tries a simple levitating spell, aimed at a tri-legged stool in the market. Nothing. He tries again, tries to do something, anything. It doesn't work, and he can't help a frustrated growl, clenching his fists against the strange, unpleasant emptiness inside of him. It makes him feel ill, makes him gag against the terrible stillness inside, and Merlin has to turn away from the procession and retch, choking against the horror of it. He's useless. He can't do anything, and Gwen is going to die.

Up above the crowd, a trumpeted fanfare announces the King's approach, and Merlin can't help but look up, much as he doesn't want to. He feels hollowed out inside already, but his gaze is drawn upward as if against his will. Arthur is beside his father, the elegance of his handsome face matched only by its coldness. He looks almost serene, but the tight clench of his hands upon the balcony rail betrays him, to Merlin if not to anyone else. Arthur fixes his gaze briefly on Gwen, but then looks away, out toward the horizon. That's something, at least, that Arthur is unhappy, uncomfortable with what he's done. _Then why did you do it_? Merlin thinks desolately. He wants to look away from Arthur but he can't quite bring himself to do it. He's still radiant, captivating, and Merlin feels a sick mixture of disappointment, guilt and want.

He misses the first few moments of Uther's speech, but the word traitor rings in the sudden stillness of the courtyard, and Merlin can't help but look up at Arthur then, an ugly laugh bubbling up out of him. He makes a token attempt at pushing through the crowd, but Bors stops him easily with a sad look, gets him tucked up between broad chest and massive arm. He struggles, but it doesn't seem to faze Bors at all. And Merlin has no magic, so he can't do anything. He sags, the crushing helplessness threatening to overwhelm him again.

The knights who drag Gwen up to the stake aren't men that Merlin knows, and he wonders what everyone else must think of this. The knights aren't so far above servants. For all their noble blood, they make their living in fighting; spend their days in training. It's no life of leisure, and though the labours are different than those who serve, they're no less severe. They have always seemed to show a sort of regard for Gwen, who brought rags out to the tournament grounds and helped treat those little cuts and bruises that didn't warrant a visit to Gaius, those things that smart terribly but that are supposed to be ignored, lest a knight risk being called weak. Gwen was never anything but kind to these men, and now they're lashing her arms to a stake, her shoulders twisted as she tries to flinch away from the bite of the harsh rope.

Uther drops his arm and the drums start up, a low, dull pounding which heralds the approach of a knight bearing a flaming torch. Merlin can't bring himself to watch, so he looks up at Arthur instead, whose gaze is still fixed on the horizon, his profile beautiful, perfect, and expressionless.

Despite this small distraction, Merlin still hears the crackle as the hay piled around the stake catches and lights. Gwen makes a horrible noise, a sort of choked off sound that seems to slip out against her will. Merlin's not quite sure why she has to be so brave about this, he certainly wouldn't be. The flames crackle again, and Merlin looks quickly over at the pyre. They're curling closer to the hem of Gwen's shift, perhaps a foot away. Up on the balcony, Arthur's brow is wrinkled, his fists clenched tight, but still he doesn't look at Gwen.

"Don't watch, boy," Bors said. He's still holding on to Merlin, keeping him helplessly immobile. "You can't unsee this." Merlin makes a wretched noise and reaches again for his magic. Still nothing. It makes him feel short of breath, almost as though he's underwater and can't get to the surface. Still Arthur looks away. Merlin thinks he can see a fine, faint tremor in his hands.

There's a clattering noise behind the crowd, like a pile of crockery shattering or- Merlin turns. Or a horse. The smoke is billowing high now, dark and acrid, and the rider looks wavery and indistinct through the curtain of it, but in a fierce moment of hopefulness, Merlin already knows who it is. As he nears, Merlin is proven correct, and something in his chest tightens with what doesn't yet dare to be relief. The crowd parts for Lancelot's horse, which is good because he doesn't seem to have any qualms about trampling people if need be. "Don't stop him," Merlin whispers fiercely, and Bors glances around and then leans in close to whisper back.

"Look at the knights, Merlin." He gestures down at his belt. "We're unarmed."

Merlin doesn't know when being restrained turned into being held, supported, but somehow it did. Before him, Lancelot's sword swings a wide arc, and the people around him leap out of its path, mostly knights. Merlin hears a pained cry, and can't help but approve. Lancelot is serious about this, as he should be. Merlin can't help but gasp as Lancelot leaps onto the pyre, stomping out the flames with his heavy boots as he saws through the ropes binding Gwen's arms. He has her free in a moment, and though Uther is shouting for the knights to restrain him, nobody seems to hear. Arthur's face looks fiercely alight, and as Lancelot hustles Gwen onto his horse he pauses for just a moment, looking up at him. As Merlin watches, Arthur's hand twitches just slightly, and Lancelot nods, as if he understands, as if he's waiting for permission. The cobblestones ring under his horse's hooves, and Merlin knows an enchantment when he sees one, the horse's hooves moving far too quickly to be natural. Uther's already calling for the knights to seat up and make chase, but they won't find anything. Bors sighs, deep and heartfelt.

"Did you know?" Merlin asks. "Did Arthur tell you something?"

"No," Bors says. "But I hoped. I think we all hoped, when he told us to come here unarmed.

"Damn," Merlin says, and runs for the stairway, Bors' arms falling easily away.

Arthur's chambers feel cold and lonely without him, and although before Merlin felt fine with curling up in Arthur's bed or comfortable chair, now it feels like an invasion. It's amazing how much it feels like things have changed in the span of just a day. He perches stiffly upon Arthur's side of the bed, considering.

He'd always intended to talk to Arthur about Morgause, and about his mother. Some day, anyway, when perhaps Uther was already long dead, and things weren't new and bright and fragile. He'd thought of saying something many times, even just hinting, beginning to lay the groundwork. But how could he begin to tell Arthur that his father was lying to him, that when he'd wanted to kill Uther, he hadn't been wrong. Arthur doesn't like being told what's best for him, he gets far too much of that from his father. He'd have been inconsolably furious, and that would have been unbearable even before everything else fell apart.

Merlin sighs and leans back against the bed. This isn't helping matters any. Best to not think about it at all. The guilt eats a hole in the pit of his stomach, but he tries not to notice. Unthinkingly, Merlin puts out a hand to shut the curtains with his magic. It doesn't work, but they do shudder in place a little. His magic feels closer to the surface, as though it's slowly returning to him. Something temporary, then. The sick feeling lodged deeply in his chest doesn't go away, but it doesn't feel quite as choking after that.

Arthur stumbles in after dark, looking as though he can barely keep himself aloft. His face is swollen up on one side, puffy and an ugly, livid red. When he sees Merlin, something in him seems to collapse, his posture bending inward. He closes the door behind him, slow and too careful, and Merlin stands, needing to be taller than Arthur.

"You drugged me," he says. "I know you're angry with me, and I completely deserve all of it and you don't have to forgive me, but you _drugged_ me. And you let me believe you'd send Gwen to her death. I thought _I_ was dying, as if losing you wasn't enough." He's angrier than he thought he could be, almost shouting by the time he's finished. "What did you do?" he asks, and now he really is shouting, and then, "Damn it, what happened to your face?" He sits down again, the rage coursing through him making him feel almost faint.

Arthur lurches forward, and Merlin flinches back, almost expecting to be dragged off the bed. Arthur surprises him, though, by falling to his knees before him, his face hot against Merlin's thigh. He's shaking, and Merlin realises after a moment that Arthur's crying. "Oh- oh god, Arthur." He reaches forward tentatively, stroking his fingers gently through Arthur's hair when his first touch is met without protest.

Arthur chokes off a sob, his face still buried against Merlin's leg. "He _hit_ me," Arthur says, his voice indistinct through his great, swiftly heaving breaths. "I'm sorry, and I've ruined everything, and he hit me."

"Who hit you?" Merlin asks. "And what did you ruin? And why didn't you tell me about Lancelot?"

Arthur makes another choked off attempt a speech, then lifts his head slightly, clearing his throat. Merlin knows he's supposed to be terribly angry right now, and he is. But he's never seen Arthur like this before, so willing to admit that he needs comforting, and it makes Merlin's heart constrict painfully. "My father hit me," Arthur says, and his voice comes out very quietly. "And you, I'm so sorry. I was angry, even though I knew why you kept things from me. It wasn't why I didn't tell you about this. I just didn't think there was any way I'd ever get away with it. I knew my father would be angry with me, but you-" he sobs again. "I couldn't let him take you. I just couldn't."

"Oh Arthur," Merlin whispers. He brushes Arthur's hair away from his swollen cheek, feeling gingerly at it. Arthur winces quite visibly, and Merlin runs his fingers through Arthur's hair instead, down to the top of his neck where he's stiff and undoubtedly aching. "Arthur," he whispers again, because for possibly the first time since he's met Arthur, it feels like a true privilege, saying his name, seeing him here like this, so lacking in his usual defences.

Arthur stifles another sob and Merlin slumps, completely defeated. "Come on," he says quietly, and drags Arthur up onto the bed so Merlin can lean back against the headboard while Arthur quietly cries, his forehead hot against Merlin's belly. Merlin strokes slowly over the planes of his shoulders, the solid lines of muscle that curve his arms, the gentle point of his elbows and the ridges of his spine. He's beautiful, and Merlin's scarcely had any time to think about that at all, not since all the recent calamities. It seems a tragedy of its own, now, that Merlin could ever have wasted a thought on anything else. He feels curiously calm, as though a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. The other things aren't gone, the betrayal, the fear, the hurt, but they aren't so important to Merlin just now.

"I love you," Arthur whispers indistinctly, his lips brushing over Merlin's trousers, leaving a trail of warmth. "It hurts how much I love you."

"I know," Merlin says quietly, and he hooks his thumbs under Arthur's jaw, forcing him to look upward. "I know exactly how that feels," he says. "I feel it too." He chuckles weakly. "It really does hurt." Arthur squeezes his eyes shut. He looks awful, swollen and tear-stained and red-eyed, but somehow it still makes Merlin breathless. He tightens his grasp on Arthur's jaw and Arthur follows it upward, eyes still closed. "It's worth it, though," Merlin whispers, and Arthur makes a strangled noise, almost as though he's been wounded, and surges up to kiss Merlin.

The kiss is rough and wet, and Merlin doesn't know which of them is being more fiercely possessive about it but he likes it. Arthur's mouth is pressed hard against his, his hands pressed over the sides of Merlin's face as he tilts Merlin's head back and licks into his mouth. It's a far different experience from their first kiss, even though the level of fear and upset had seemed all encompassing at the time, just like now. Now, he knows every inch of Arthur's body, and he's starting to know all of his head, too, all of his heart, and this is just impossibly, unfathomably better.

Merlin pulls away finally, regretfully. "Lets get something cold on your face," he says quietly, and it's an instinct to reach for his magic first. It's tentative, weak, but he manages to summon Arthur's water cup in a slow, jerky arc. He already feels a little stronger by the time he spills the water into the air, freezing the droplets before they can hit the bed. He plucks them out of the air, wrapping them in one of Arthur's discarded shirts, and holds it to his face. Arthur shudders but doesn't shy away from it, and Merlin wraps an arm around him and draws him close. "We can talk about everything," he says quietly. "But for now, lets just-" he sighs. "Lets just be here, okay?"

Arthur nods, the unswollen side of his face pressed against the curve of Merlin's neck, and Merlin draws him a bit closer, kissing the top of his head. Arthur looks very young like this, tousled and bruised and fragile, and it makes Merlin ache, for them both but mostly for Arthur. He's never been just a boy, even less than Merlin has. They'll never have the sort of courtship where a terrible day simply means Arthur spilled something on his favorite shirt. Destiny is big, important, but it isn't very kind at all. It doesn't seem fair, not when all that Merlin wants is to love Arthur, and to be loved by him. He'll take this, all of the pain and the fear and everything else, but it just doesn't seem fair.

Merlin wakes up without any recollection of having gone to sleep in the first place. He's still propped up against the headboard, Arthur a dead weight upon his chest, and when he shifts, his back tinges sharply in protest. Merlin groans, trying to roll out the aching tightness in his neck.

Arthur stirs, pressing a sloppy kiss at the base of Merlin's neck. It takes a few moments for him to properly wake up, and Merlin circumvents the impending anxiety by pulling him close and kissing him, slow and gentle. "We both have things to say," he says quietly. "But I love you."

Arthur nods, blinking up at Merlin. "Yeah," he says. "Okay." He cocks his head, gaze coasting along the line of Merlin's shoulder. "You look stiff." He manhandles Merlin onto his stomach and presses his hands into the knotted line of Merlin's back, working away at the tension with his big, warm hands. Merlin can't help but make a soft, breathy noise as he works his fingers deep against the muscle. This easy companionship feels new again, almost fragile, but Merlin's chest feels warm and full, telling him that things may just be all right again.

"How's your face?" Merlin asks, and Arthur pauses, making a displeased noise as he reaches up to feel.

"Not so bad," he says, but it doesn't sound very convincing. His hands return to Merlin's shoulders, but they're slower now, almost hesitant.

"Arthur," Merlin says quietly, it comes out on a sigh, and he's not at all sure what he means by it, the difficult subject warring with the pleasant feel of Arthur's hands. "What happened?" He rolls over. He's learned by now that Arthur's face will always speak more clearly than whatever few words he chooses to say aloud. "Start from the beginning," he adds, and pulls Arthur down beside him, wrapping his fingers around Arthur's wrist.

Arthur makes a faint sound, something almost wounded, but after a moment he seems to force himself to relax. "In the hall," he says quietly. "I saw your face when I told my father I'd seen Gwen with Lancelot." He makes a low noise, deep in his throat, something faintly derisive. "He wasn't going to stop, not if he had to flog everyone in Camelot. And even if nobody confessed, he was still going to say the same thing, maybe worse." Merlin can't help his shudder. Something worse than a burning. He has mo doubt that Uther is capable of such a thing.

Arthur brushes gingerly over his bruised face, mapping the damage by touch, hissing in short, sharp breaths where it's worst. "I could see Leon would riot," he says. "I didn't want to know which of my knights would consider mutiny, but they wouldn't all have sided with my father, whether they're loyal to me or not. That's a decision I couldn't ask them to make. I would never have left Gwen to burn, though, you must know that." There's a note of desperation in his voice, and in that moment, Merlin realises that he's right. It seems ridiculous that he could have assumed Arthur capable of such callous behavior, though at the time he could think of nothing else.

"You were very convincing," Merlin admits. "And I felt so guilty, I felt as if I deserved that. Bit selfish, now that I think of it."

Arthur chuckles, reaching over to map slow fingers over Merlin's pulse point. "I really was upset," he says. "But I understood. It wasn't you I was upset at, after the first moment. But I couldn't let anyone suspect that I was planning a rescue."

"How did you do it?" Merlin asks, choosing to ignore that last bit. He doesn't like being left out of Arthur's plans, even if it's out of Arthur's stupid sense of protectiveness.

"I called for Morgause," Arthur says. "I must admit I was rather rude. But she understood the gravity of the situation, and she agreed to send a message to Lancelot. She also told him how to find her castle; apparently you can't just look on a map, you need magic words and things. They're there now, I should think. Morgause called it the Joyous Gard."

Merlin nods, considering. "So you didn't know if your plan would work; that's why you were so afraid."

"Merlin, my plan _didn't_ work," Arthur says. "Well the rescue part worked, but my father guessed right away that I'd helped. I knew he would, I argued myself hoarse that first night, and he forbade me to do anything to help Gwen. I made the mistake of telling him I wouldn't let her burn, and after Lancelot came, I don't think he had to do more than look at me to know I had a hand in it.

"And that's when he hit you?" Merlin asks.

Arthur nods. "He would have done more than hit you," he murmurs, and his cheeks go a little pink as he looks down, embarrassed. "I couldn't."

"Arthur," Merlin says gently. "I'm not helpless. You can't lie to me like that, and you can't take away my magic. Not even when you think you're saving my life."

Arthur shifts uncomfortably. "I saw you," he whispers. "In the courtyard, I saw you trying. You would've given yourself away right in front of my father."

"Not if I'd known there was another plan," Merlin counters, but he gives in for the moment, watching as Arthur's shoulders tense. "How did you do it?"

Arthur replies against the pillow, his words thick and indistinct. "I asked Gaius to do it," he says. "Just for a day. He said he'd make something, put it in your food. I made him," he adds, suddenly forceful. "Don't be angry with him, I made him."

"Shut up," Merlin says absently, remembering the meal Gaius had so carefully divided, the strength of the herbs. He should've guessed there was something unusual about it. "Gaius can take care of himself."

"Have I mentioned that I'm very, very sorry?" Arthur asks, looking carefully up at him. He looks so strangely tender, so bruised and fragile, that Merlin can't bring himself to be too upset.

"Have _I_?" he counters, and Arthur relaxes a little. "I am," he adds softly, and Arthur looks up at him and nods.

"Me too."

They stay in bed for most of the morning, hardly moving. It's not quite the easy intimacy that they had before, but it's something close to it, the familiar warmth of the coverlets, the surprising smoothness of the underside of Arthur's forearm where it rests beneath Merlin's cheek. His body is pleasantly close and solid, his hair spread out against the pillows, and he's the way Merlin has always liked him best, lounging out unabashedly, completely unaware of how breathtakingly beautiful he is. Merlin feels strangely and inexplicably humbled by the sight.

"My father lied to me," Arthur says quietly, and for a moment Merlin almost thinks he must be asleep, but the next words are clearer, stronger. "I think I've always remembered my mother in his terms. I always wanted a mother, but it was sad because he was sad whenever he mentioned her. I thought it was my fault," he says, and it sounds like a confession. Merlin sucks in a quiet breath, not wanting to disturb whatever moment has made Arthur decide to talk about this.

"I know why you lied about Morgause," Arthur says carefully. "And I'm glad you stopped me. I'd regret it terribly. Before you, he was all I had." He glances over, almost against his will, as though double-checking that what he's said is allowed. Merlin returns the look with a tiny smile, reassuring. "I do love him. But somehow, he's lost sight of everything it is to be a king. If he wasn't so eaten up with anger about my mother, I could have at least gotten to know her through his memories. Instead, I inherited his sorrow, and his fear and guilt." Arthur sucks in a quick breath, suddenly forceful. "I hate that he tainted my only memories of her."

Merlin reaches out to clasp his forearm, gentle but firm. "What will you do?" he asks, and it's pitched very carefully, so as not to convey any one emotion. This is Arthur's father, and Arthur's decision.

"I don't know yet," Arthur says. "But when I am king, things will be different. I won't rule a kingdom with hatred and fear. _We_ won't," he amends, looking shyly at Merlin, "That is, if you're still interested."

"Arthur," Merlin says, gently chiding. "Being without you for two days, I felt like I was dying. It's not something I ever want to feel again. I think you're going to be a great king, and I-" he hesitates, swallowing. It feels very large, what he's agreeing to, but somehow, he isn't afraid of it. "I want to be there, beside you."

"Our kingdom," Arthur muses, and while he still looks tired and worn, there's the tiniest hint of a sparkle in his eye. Merlin leans in close, until Arthur's lips are brushing his forehead. "What shall we call it?"

"I think it's already got a name," Merlin mumbles.

Arthur chuckles. "I know, but that name's old, it's got too many ugly memories. We need a name that's just for us, something for the kingdom we're going to build between the two of us."

Merlin leans in close, considering. "Gramarye," he says finally. "We should call it Gramarye."

"Like the magic books?" Arthur asks. "My nursemaid used to tell me stories," he adds, at Merlin's surprised look.

"Like that," Merlin agrees. "But not a book, a place. A place where all those things can be."

"Gramarye," Arthur says, trying out the word. "Gramarye. Our place."

"Our place," Merlin agrees, and when he presses his cheek against Arthur's chest, he can hear his heartbeat, steady and strong and alive.

There's food, eventually, but other than that, they don't move at all. Merlin suspects Arthur's been told not to show his face in court until he finds some way to make amends for his deeds, but it's just as likely that Arthur is avoiding the situation on his own, especially when the evidence of his father's disapproval is so clearly written upon his skin. It's so curiously Arthur of him, to not want to show the court any sign of weakness between himself and his father, any inability of his father to control his subjects. Arthur's curious loyalty is just one of many things that Merlin can't help but love about him, even though it rather hurts to watch.

He's selfishly glad to have Arthur here in bed, close enough that Merlin could almost count each fine strand of his hair, smooth over every tiny worry line that spans his brow. Arthur is indulgent, and explores Merlin's features with equal interest. They've only been apart for two days, but even before that there was all of the turmoil that led up to it, comforting Lancelot and Gwen both, Arthur fruitlessly trying to convince his father to break the engagement. All in all, it feels like years since Merlin has been able to look his fill at Arthur, without any concern for being caught, or of any of his friends getting married off or separated or killed.

He doesn't have any recollection of nodding off, but he must have, because he awakens to find that the sun is dipping low, and Arthur is quietly watching him through heavily lidded eyes, and someone is whispering in his ear.

"Do you hear that?" he asks Arthur. Arthur gives him a confused look, and Merlin amends, "The voice. Do you hear a voice?"

"No," Arthur says, drawn out and raspy, heavy with grogginess.

"Right," Merlin mutters, and closes his eyes, trying to hear. The voice is slippery, drifting around somewhere deep in his head, but after a moment he recognizes it. "Morgana."

He hears a tinkling laugh, and then the voice again, this time louder, clearer. "Emrys. Hello." It's unsettling, how deep within he feels the impact of her words. It feels wrong, as though she's intruded too far within Merlin's head.

"We're coming to you," Morgana says, still in that silvery, eerie voice. "Any moment now."

"Morgana and Morgause are coming here," Merlin whispers, and Arthur's gaze tracks Merlin's as he peers around the darkening room, half expecting to see them already. "Why?" he asks, more loudly.

"We're coming for the boy," Morgana says, and then they really are standing in the room.

The first few moments are somewhat awkward, since Merlin and Arthur aren't exactly respectably dressed, and the last time Merlin saw Morgana, banquet hall manifestation aside, he had tried to kill her. Arthur's track record with Morgause isn't far better. However Morgana doesn't seem overly concerned about any of it, her gaze unquestionably turned inward, and Morgause has eyes only for her. It's the first time Merlin has seen the two of them together since the poisoning, and he's struck, both by the devotion in Morgause's eyes, and by the madness in Morgana's gaze. Merlin can feel the bond the two women have by just looking at them; the way Morgause is holding onto Morgana's hand, the way their fingers are laced together. It feels uncannily similar to the way he thinks he and Arthur look at one another, discounting the insanity.

"Arthur," Morgana says, and nods at him. There's something very regal about her pose, and a little frightening. "I'm seeing things," she says, "Bad, bad things. Must stop the boy, or bad things will happen." Her voice is sing-songy, a little crazed. It sends an uncomfortable shiver through Merlin.

"What are you seeing?" he asks.

"Oh, bad things, very bad," Morgana says. "Not for you to hear, Emrys, not for your heart to bear, to break. Just for me." She spins on her heel, fixing Arthur with a steely gaze. "Fix them, get them out've my head. Must find the boy. Only he's not just a boy, not at all. Something much older in that one."

He'd known that Mordred had had some sort of effect upon Morgana, but Morgause's brief reports had done nothing near preparing Merlin for this. He can see that Arthur is similarly shaken, and Morgause's helpless look seems to agree. Nobody else seems willing to break the odd spell of Morgana's words, so Merlin straightens against the headboard, resolute. "Right," he says firmly. "Guess we've got to find Mordred. But first, I think Arthur and I shall get dressed." Morgause swallows a laugh at that, and Merlin considers it a success.

After they're more suitably attired, Morgause sits down beside them on the bed, exhaustion written into her every movement. "She's seeing quite a few bad things," she says, gesturing at where Morgana is rocking back and forth on her heels, gazing out the window. "It's no wonder her mind isn't working properly. I think it's worse, though. I think Mordred has her lost in her own head."

"We'll help," Merlin says, glancing over at Arthur for affirmation.

Arthur nods. "We'll help," he repeats firmly, and glances over at Morgana. "She's like a sister."

"She's important to all of us," Morgause says grimly. "And I won't rest until she's well."

"What do we do?" Merlin asks, and Morgause clasps her hands together and straightens, every inch the tactician, now.

"We'll need to locate him, first," Morgause says. "He doesn't want to be found, of course, but I think if the two of us combine our magic, we should be able to negate whatever enchantment he may be using to stay hidden. After that, we must sort out exactly what he's done to Morgana, and how to turn it back. By then, Morgana should be lucid enough to tell us exactly what she's seeing, and what it has to do with Mordred."

The spell turns out to be surprisingly simple, just a repeated chant that they say together, hands linking them into a small circle. Morgana hardly seems to notice the goings on, now wandering around and muttering ominous things at Arthur's belongings. However Arthur seems transfixed, his gaze dark and almost hungry. Merlin can feel Arthur's eyes on his mouth as he chants, and it sends the blood rushing to his cheeks, that Arthur could see something attractive in this spellwork.

They chant, over and over again until the words all blend together into nothing but meaningless sounds. Merlin hasn't any idea for how long they've been repeating the spell, but it seems like an eternity before something finally begins to happen. It starts out small, just a slight brightness on the floor within the circle of their arms, but it grows into a light, hovering above the stone floor, wavery and indistinct. As they continue, it grows, solidifying into a golden orb. It looks as though it ought to be very hot, but Merlin can't feel anything at all, even where it's nearly close enough to graze his arm.

"There," Morgause says finally, and Merlin squints for a moment as the orb begins to reflect a fuzzy picture. It's Mordred, but it takes a few more moments for his surroundings to come into focus, and when they do, it's Arthur who gasps, sounding heavily in the chamber. Mordred is seated at the foot of Uther's throne. On the other side of Arthur's chamber, Morgana topples forward into the cupboard, falling in a rain of dislodged books.

Of course Arthur is the first to volunteer. "I'll go to him," he says. "I'll see what's happened."

Merlin glances at Morgause, breaking the circle at her nod. "Don't be ridiculous," he says, crossing the room. "He's furious with you already."

"Your knights aren't, though, I wager," Morgause interjects. "Perhaps they could tell us what's happened."

Arthur nods, not hesitating for even a moment before standing to step into his boots, straightening the laces of his shirt and briskly running his hands down the front of his breeches, tidying himself. The motions are strangely endearing, a testament to the way Arthur feels he must conduct himself before his knights. "I'll go straight away," he says, already striding toward the door. He stops, reaching out to grasp Merlin by the wrist and pull him in for a rough kiss. "I'll be back," he whispers, and his voice comes out rough and strangely pleading. "Let's never do anything like that again."

Merlin nods, breathless and off balance, and Arthur clutches him close for a long moment before gently releasing him and stepping out the door. Merlin is blushing furiously, but he still can't help but watch Arthur go, looking strong and regal and just the slightest bit flustered himself. Merlin turns back toward Morgause, embarrassed. "What now?" he asks. "How do we stop Mordred?"

"He'll have some sort of talisman," Morgause says confidently, "Something worked of a bit of Morgana's hair, perhaps. It's how he was able to keep his control over her from such a distance. We must find it and destroy it. I suspect doing so will weaken his powers enough that Morgana may escape his hold." He hears Morgause move, steps light as she crosses the room. Morgana is twitching now, and she looks unpleasantly pale, her brow sweat-damp. "She's getting worse, and quickly," Morgause says. Her brisk, displeased tone doesn't match at all the gentle way in which she brushes Morgana's damp hair off her forehead, placing gentle fingers over her pulse point. "It will have to be soon."

"Or?" Merlin asks, even though he's already fairly certain what the answer will be.

"Or?" Morgause repeats. She turns gracefully, still crouched down beside Morgana. "You told me what a mistake it was to harm your friend. You said a great many things about guilt, sorrow, and about forgiveness. This is your chance to earn Morgana's faith again, but you must act quickly, before it is too late. I cannot help her, this time. Not until the talisman is burnt to ash."

"What about you?" Merlin asks quietly. "Can you help me?"

Morgause looks down at Morgana, her eyes drifting closed for a moment. Her hand is stretched out over Morgana's shoulder, and her fingers look gossamer thin, almost transparent. "I need to be with her," she says finally. "I don't know what will happen if she loses control of herself completely. She's a very powerful sorceress."

"Okay," Merlin says quietly, because much as he doesn't want to imagine Arthur in a similar situation, he can, and he wouldn't want to leave his side either. "I'll go to Mordred, as soon as Arthur returns."

"Emrys," Morgause says. "You must realise that Arthur cannot help with this. I simply thought it best to distract him, lest he worry," Morgause says. It would sound ominous enough on its own, but it's compounded as Morgana chooses that moment to surge upward, her eyes rolling back in her head as she claws at Merlin's arm.

"Take care!" she gasps, and Merlin nods, feeling something drop, deep in the pit of his stomach. They're right, both of them. Arthur cannot help with something so intricate as magic, and he is going to have to be very, very careful.

The walk to the audience hall feels unbelievably long. It seems strange to see the castle bustling with such an ordinary degree of activity, a reminder that it has to keep on going, providing, even in times of turmoil. Still, Merlin feels a jolt of surprise each time he encounters a bored foot-servant, or a laundress bearing a load of linens. It's as though they're already forgotten everything that's happened in the past few days, and for a moment, Merlin is almost jealous. It must be nice, to have so few cares. He knows even as he thinks it, though, that he'd never trade Arthur for anything, especially not this.

Mordred is curled up at the seat of Uther's throne, just as the spell had shown him. Uther is not present, but the milling court indicates that he's only just stepped out, and that he won't be gone for long. Merlin squares his shoulders, trying to think about things as confidently as possible, and steps into the hall.

He'd half-expected something dramatic, for Mordred to leap up and throw a spell at him, or for a squadron of knights to tackle him. Instead, he passes through the hallway unobstructed, as easily as he ever has. The court seems blessedly uninterested in him, and Mordred just watches speculatively as he approaches. Merlin reaches the stone block upon which Uther's throne stands, and he gazes down at Mordred for a long moment, before sitting down beside him, suddenly weary.

Mordred gazes up at Merlin, his eyes dark and wide. He looks strangely ethereal, hair falling over his forehead cowslip soft, his features tiny and delicate. The air wavers around him, thick and oily, and it makes Merlin feel slightly sick, trying to look at him directly. He settles for the occasional glance instead, dropping his hands into his lap. "Why are you hurting Morgana?" he asks. "She tried to help you. She helped you more than I ever did."

Mordred looks up at him, his jaw clenched tight. "You're a traitor, Emrys. Camelot deserves to burn."

Merlin sighs heavily. "Perhaps it does. But that doesn't mean it's yours or my place to make it happen. There are too many good people here, the people who'd be harmed in the process."

"They haven't magic," Mordred says. "Or they used it wrong." This is rather pointedly aimed at Merlin. "They deserve to die, all of them."

The gates open to admit Uther, and Merlin slips off the dais, slipping down to kneel beside Mordred. "Don't kill Morgana," he whispers desperately. "This is about me, don't involve her."

"You don't like when she hurts," Mordred says, and his tone is awful, smug. "You're right that it's about you. It's your fault."

He pauses, bowing his head at Uther's approach, and Uther nods at him. Merlin doesn't get enough of a glimpse at Uther's eyes to determine whether or not he's enchanted. Perhaps he doesn't even need to be, when someone so neatly fills the role of son in the face of Arthur's disobedience.

"You still have a chance," Merlin whispers desperately. "Don't do this, Mordred, please."

"Too late," Mordred sing-songs happily, and then Morgana appears, spinning drunkenly around the hall.

She looks even worse than before, pale and feverish and without the slightest spark of sanity. Merlin isn't entirely sure how she got here, but it can't be a good thing. From the way the air is crackling around her pinwheeling form, it seems safe to assume that this is exactly what Morgause had been afraid of, Morgana completely losing control of her magic.

All through the hall, people are shrinking back away from Morgana. Uther stands up, looking shocked, horrified. He puts out a hand, watching in stunned disbelief. Morgana doesn't seem to notice. "Somebody stop her!" Uther cries out, but nobody does. Merlin doesn't blame them, the space around Morgana is crackling ominously, as though it's just been struck by lightening.

"Mordred," Merlin tries desperately, one last time. "Stop it, please. You can stop this."

"Guards!" Uther calls, behind him. "Someone bring me a weapon." The hall is in turmoil now, the mass of confused courtiers avoiding Morgana's spinning. A knight steps forward, bearing a blade.

"Damn it," Merlin mutters, and stands up. This is beyond stupid, but he can't bear to watch Morgana die again. "She's clearly enchanted," he says, loud enough to carry.

Uther looks down at him, features unpleasantly tight. "Who gave you permission to speak, servant?"

That stings, but it isn't entirely unexpected. "I'm sorry, sire," Merlin says, and bows his head. "It's just, look at her. She's enchanted."

Uther glances back at Morgana, almost against his will. He still looks tense, ready to order something terrible, but there's a new crease in his brow. He's thinking it over. "Bring Gaius to the hall," Uther tells the steward, who's seated just behind him. "I want to know whether or not Morgana has been possessed by an enchantment."

 _It's going to work_ , Merlin thinks. It was such a stupid idea, no foresight or planning or even finesse, but it's going to work.

Beside him, Mordred falls over, clutching at his throat. Merlin shrinks back, shocked. He didn't sense any magic, but then, Morgause is very strong. She must be here somewhere, and Merlin casts about, searching the room. He doesn't see her, not that that means anything.

Mordred looks as though he's choking, but somehow he manages to speak very clearly. "It's him!" he shrieks, and points up at Merlin, still writhing on the ground. "He's trying to kill me! He's using magic!"

"Seize both of them!" Uther cries out, and this time, nobody hesitates to do so, reaching for Morgana and Merlin both. Merlin struggles, realizing almost numbly that things have just gone very, very bad. Behind him, the great doors of the hall swing open with a dull thud. Merlin manages to take one quick, strained glance behind him. It's Arthur, and just behind him is Morgause.

"Merlin?" Arthur calls, and pushes through the crowd. "What's happened? Let go of him!"

"No!" Uther cries, and reaches out in the direction of the blade that's still being proffered to him. "Enough of this! This madness ends here!" His eyes are fever bright, and for a moment he looks even more mad than Morgana.

Arthur's eyes are darting back and forth between Merlin and Uther, wide and anxious. "I- no, Father. No." He's pleading, and Merlin can see Arthur bending inward against his father's displeasure. It hurts to see, somehow even more than it hurts to know that there's no easy way out of this situation.

" _Arthur_ ," Uther says sternly. "Stay back. There's sorcery here."

"No," Arthur says desperately. "This is ludicrous! Morgana's like a daughter to you. And Merlin," he hesitates, and when he speaks again, his voice comes out shaky and weak.

"I-" He glances suddenly downward, his cheeks flushing. "I love him." He looks up at Merlin, then, and Merlin is shocked by how sweet he looks, how beautiful. He murmurs it back at Arthur. It's almost inaudible, but he knows Arthur can read it off his lips.

"This is madness!" Uther cries. "In love with that _creature_? It's sorcery." With that, he seizes the sword and lunges forward. Merlin can see the indecision written upon Arthur's features, but he reaches for his own blade, stepping in front of Merlin.

"Arthur, don't do it," Merlin whispers, but Uther is bearing down on them both, and Arthur squeezes his eyes closed and readies himself to parry.

Merlin never sees the swing, but he does see Uther fall, Arthur stumbling back shocked and something close to horrified. Uther's mouth opens, but he doesn't even have time to scream. Arthur makes a sick noise and backs away, dropping his sword.

It takes Merlin a moment to realise that Arthur's blade is clean, and another to see that Morgause has stepped forward, her eyes still ringed in gold, her hair whipping around her head as though blown by a wind that Merlin cannot feel. "You should never have to choose," Morgause says, and nods at Arthur, stepping forward. Her voice is cold, steely, and she looks frankly terrifying, eyes blown and skin still crackling with energy. She steps forward, looking tall and strong and misleadingly casual as she gazes down at Uther's crumpled form. "Nimue warned him," she says briskly. "She said he would fall at my hand, if he continued his reign of hate." She closes her eyes for just a moment, her head bowed just slightly. "He should have listened." She raises her voice, looking up again at the hushed crowd. "The king is dead, long live the king."

Bending gracefully down, she plucks the circlet off Uther's head and approaches Arthur, bowing her head in an uncharacteristically respectful gesture as she places it gently over his brow. "Here begins a new reign. Let it be a better one."

Arthur looks back at her, shock and sadness warring with what Merlin knows as his dutiful prince face. Except now it's his dutiful _king_ face, and okay, Merlin can understand the confusion. He steps forward, raising his arm to Merlin knows not what. The gesture could be directed at Morgause, or Uther, Merlin, or even the baffled court.

He doesn't make it, eyes going wide as he topples forward, landing face-first with a heavy thud. His fingers splay out against the floor, the air sharp with the sound of cracked reeds, skittering away from his body with the weight of the fall.

"Oh," Merlin says, half a gasp. "Oh, Arthur." At last they've found the weight that is too great for Arthur's nobility to bear. He muscles his way free of the knights still holding him. Their arms drop easily, as stunned as everyone else in the room. Merlin crouches down beside him, working careful fingers over his scalp. Despite the force of the fall, his head isn't bleeding, but it is heavy under his hands. He's passed out cold. Merlin lifts him upward, into his lap, Arthur's head lolling against Merlin's chest. "You'll be all right," Merlin murmurs. "You'll be a great king." He doesn't blame Arthur, this is rather a lot to process. However the hall is starting to rumble with confused voices.

"Arthur," he whispers. "Arthur, you've got to wake up. The people need to see their king."

Arthur is still for a moment, but then his eyelashes flutter, and Merlin feels him stir. "Merlin," he says, sounding confused, still woozy. "Everything went black. I feel so strange." He looks it too, his brow furrowed, his eyelids dragging heavily shut as though against his will.

"It's all right," Merlin says. "You just took a tumble. I expect it was a lot to take in, all at once."

"It's not that," Arthur says, sounding perplexed. "It's- help me up, will you?"

"Of course," Merlin says, and gets up onto his knees, wrapping a hand around Arthur's middle to help him into a sitting position. "Your-" Merlin starts confusedly. "Your side's all-" he pulls his hand away. "-wet," he finishes, but he's lost his voice somewhere along the way, because his hand is red with Arthur's blood.

"How strange," Arthur says, sounding faintly interested, and passes out again.

When Merlin rolls Arthur over, the blade is tiny but sunk deeply into Arthur's side. The hit is a vicious one, undoubtedly thrown with unerring accuracy, and blood is still seeping sluggishly from the neat wound. The small blade, the quiet ferocity of the action, the absolute heartlessness of it, all make it quite clear who the culprit is, and Merlin doesn't even think about it, doesn't even raise his eyes from Arthur's stained red tunic. He just lifts an arm and _thinks_ , channels all of his rage into that motion, and somewhere, fuzzily, he hears sounds of struggle as Mordred is dragged through the crowd, as though an invisible hand has wrapped itself about his throat.

"You did this," Merlin says, and he scarcely recognizes his own voice. He feels cruel, ugly. He can't think about Arthur, about whether or not he's even still alive. He's lost a great deal of blood, and his face is already going pale with it. The only thing Merlin can safely think about is how Mordred has done this, caused so much pain, divided all of Camelot, and of how happy he would be to do more thoughtless damage.

Mordred spits at him, not bothering to try denying it. "I told you," he says, and it comes out in a hiss. "I told you I wouldn't forget."

"Neither do I," Merlin says coldly, and flicks his hand carelessly, not bothering to look up even when Mordred crumples to the ground with a sharp crack.

Beside him, Morgana draws in a long, sharp breath, and he hears Morgause cross to her, murmuring words that fall senselessly upon Merlin's ringing ears. He can hear, faintly, when they join him, can feel the brush of fabric against his shoulder, but none of it seems to matter, anymore. Merlin rocks Arthur slowly back and forth, and doesn't think of anything at all.

"Morgana wants to tell you something," he hears, finally, through the haze. It's Morgause, and she sounds quieter, kinder than usual. She's not usually blessed with patience, but somehow she seems to have a great deal of it, just now.

Merlin can't bear to turn away from Arthur completely, but he manages a sidelong glance. Morgana is tall and still beside him, looking calm and far healthier. "You look better," Merlin says dully.

Morgana nods, smooth and regal as always. "The enchantment died with Mordred," she says, and he sees her eyes flick over toward where he's still lying. It's funny, in a horrible sort of way. He looks like nothing more than a boy, now, not someone who could ever be responsible for such evil. He looks so small and slight, so helpless, and Merlin really feels as though he ought to be horrified by what he's done. It's frightening that he isn't, not at all, or at least it should be.

"What is it?" he asks.

Morgana looks back over at him, strangely thoughtful. "A vision," she says, and reaches out to clasp Morgause's hand, leaning slightly into the touch as her eyes roll slowly back in her head. When she speaks again, her voice comes out strange, wilder sounding. "You must take the king to Avalon," she intones. "Follow the old paths, return the king to the water. There he shall wait, until he is called to rise again." She lets out a little sigh, soft and sweet, and Merlin can see when the magic fades, her posture loosening as her eyes adjust back to seeing the present. "That's all I have," she says, sounding confused. "I don't know what Avalon is, but I know you have to go there. This is important."

"It's an island," Merlin says. "I've seen it once before. I'll take him there. I'll go with him." That island didn't have a name, but Merlin knows already that it's where he has to go. It's where things begin, and where they have to end, Nimue or no.

"No," says Morgause, and her hand is tight around Morgana's waist. "You'll not come back from there. No one does."

"He's dying," Merlin says, and presses his eyes closed. No time for tears, not just yet.

"No one prophesised this," Morgause says, and Morgana nods in agreement. "I'd have seen it," she adds. "He was supposed to live. I saw the things he did, they were wonderful."

"We failed," Merlin says quietly. "We all did. This was his destiny, but we failed. I failed. I have to go with him."

"Oh, Merlin," Morgana sighs, but Morgause quiets her, speaking up firmly.

"Don't go there hoping for a miracle," she warns. "The only thing there is endings."

"No," Merlin says quietly. "I'm not hoping for a miracle. I just know this is where he has to end up, to wait for better times."

"And what of you?" asks Morgana.

Merlin chuckles, softly. He doesn't know the words until he's saying them, but something about it seems perfectly right, as though there is no other option. "I can't be parted from him, not ever again. If he goes to Avalon, I go too."

"An eon of waiting?" Morgause asks. "It's a lot to do for one man."

"He's not just one man," Merlin says quietly, and at this moment nothing's ever been truer. "He's everything."

"I can keep him from getting any worse," Morgause says quietly, "Just long enough for you to take him there."

**

They ride at dawn. Arthur is nearly senseless, and Merlin is reminded of a similar ride, back when this all began. This time, though, they share a horse, Arthur slumped heavily over Merlin's back.

"Look," Merlin whispers, and nudges Arthur with his elbow. "Look at this place."  
Arthur lifts his chin to Merlin's shoulder.

"This is all yours," Merlin murmurs over the lump in his throat. "This will always be yours."

"All I want to be is yours," Arthur rasps, his breath harsh against Merlin's earlobe.

"Cariad," Merlin says, and brushes away a stray tear. "You're always mine. You always have been."

They ride down through the meadows, the same trail that they've taken so many times before. Merlin stops frequently, pointing out little places he remembers.

"I saved you so many times on this path," he says quietly, and though it was meant to be a gentle joke, it only leaves unsaid the last bit, that now he will do the very opposite. Now he will take Arthur to his death.

"This is Gramarye," Arthur says quietly. "This is ours."

"Yeah," Merlin says thickly, and urges his horse on more quickly. What a dream it was, a kingdom, a new order, acceptance, not hate. The world doesn't really work like that, it never does. _Gramarye._ He can't even bear to look at it, and he digs his heels in harder until his horse is moving at a gallop, the land streaking by all indistinct and strange.

It could be days before they reach the water, but Merlin doesn't really know. He hasn't stopped, nor has he felt the need to, no doubt a kind little enchantment cast by Morgause. He's dimly aware of the day changing to night, but it doesn't slow his pace, and it seems no time at all before he sees the ground begin to go marshy, before he sees the dip of the bank in the distance, and then very close indeed. This time, Merlin doesn't think they'll need the little boat that bobs there, dipping up and down in the shallow water.

"It's time now," he says softly, and dismounts, helping Arthur off after him. Morgause's staying spell appears to be wearing off, and Arthur's face is starting to look pale, almost grey.

Arthur is quiet, and perfectly relaxed despite the pain that he must be starting to feel once more. "I don't think I'll need these," he says earnestly, plucking at his clothes. "Could you help me? Like the old days?"

"I told you I'd gladly be your servant always," Merlin answers, and though tears are beginning to slip down Merlin's cheeks, Arthur's face is serene as Merlin's magic cuts them easily free of their clothes.

"I love you," he whispers brokenly, and he has to turn away for a moment because his eyes are blurry with tears, Arthur's silhouette going fuzzy against the soft morning light. The day is beautifully warm, finally warm enough to be summer. It's the kind of day when Arthur would have always wanted to go swimming, to ignore his responsibilities and lay around talking about his dreams, even back in the old days when he rarely spoke of such things at all. It seems fitting, somehow.

"Of course," Arthur says, as though it's the most natural thing in the world. "I love you too, completely. Come join me, this isn't cold." He's half in the water already.

Merlin spares a moment to whisper a spell into the horse's ear, directing her back to Camelot, then slips in off the bank. He's right, the water isn't cold. "Come here," he says, and Arthur backs up against him sliding slowly down the length of his body until he's floating before Merlin with his head brushing up against Merlin's chest.

"Kiss me once for the road, will you?" Arthur asks, and his tone is sweet and easy. The water's starting to blush red, the wound in his side reopened.

Merlin bends forward, and though the angle is awkward and Arthur's lips are upside down and slippery, and Merlin is dripping tears on his shoulders, it's still probably the best kiss he's ever had. "Is this it?" he asks, but when he looks down, Arthur has already gone still, and his eyes are closed.

It's more peaceful than he expected, as even now the lake pulls at Arthur's body, anxious to reclaim him, but suddenly Merlin is so tired of destiny, and prophecy and responsibility. He isn't ready, he realises, he'll never be ready for this. He needs to do something, let the water pull him down too, or slip away from it somehow, but he can't do either. The pain wells up inside him, bright and hot as fire, building up like steam in a kettle until it all explodes out of him with a terrible howl. His magic lights up the sky like dragonfire, pale and shocking against the soft blue of the balmy night. "NO," He cries sharply, "NO, I WON'T LOSE HIM. HEAR ME," he yells. "I'LL DESTROY IT ALL, YOU KNOW I WILL. GIVE HIM BACK."

Tears course over his cheeks as he wails, and something snaps in him, so sharp and agonising that it feels as though he's been broken in half. The magic swirls through him, through everything, everything, until he can't tell where he begins and the rest of the world ends, until it all starts to bleed together, colours and sounds and water and sky. The light shoots up through him, out of his chest and his throat and his eyes, skittering toward the sky with such a force that the trees begin to sway, and the ruins of the old island shift ominously. It doesn't matter, not anymore. This was all Arthur's place, and without him, it feels hollow already. There's no way to bring him back, either, and he already knows that too. He can't bring himself to stop.

Merlin wades deeper, casting about for something, anything. It's all just water, vast and still despite his thrashing. It feels as though he could just keep walking forever, and never get anywhere. It's empty, just like him. He wishes he could sink into the water himself, but it won't let him, won't take him.

Then there's a gentle touch on his back, and a voice, soft and mocking and whispering closely in his ear.

"They told me you were having a tantrum up here. The lady of the lake's all in a bother over it."

It has to be some sort of cruel joke. He turns. Arthur is standing behind him, wet and glistening like an ancient god, and the rent in his stomach is cleanly healed.

"What-" He falters, and the bed of the lake is a little lower here, sending him falling backward into deeper water.

"Oh," Arthur says warmly, "Merlin, you're so clumsy. Come here." With that he reaches out one long, perfect arm and pulls Merlin back to shallow water and closer still, into the warm bracket of his arms. "It's really me," he adds into the tangle of Merlin's wet hair. "I'm really back. They said it would be foolish to take me from you."

Merlin snuffles into his very solid, very real chest. "I'm afraid I'm imagining you."

Arthur draws his hand up over Merlin's chest and fits it around Merlin's jaw, tilting his chin upward. "Here," he says softly, and leans in to brush their lips together. "I'm real," he says again. "Apparently you were about to cause some sort of apocalypse? I told them they must have the wrong Merlin, as mine is far too incompetent for anything like that." He kisses his way across the length of Merlin's jaw and drags his teeth gently over the nape of his neck.

"Yes well," Merlin says a little breathlessly, "I wasn't in a very good mood."

"Ah," Arthur says, and his chuckle is rich and melodious. "Now that sounds like the Merlin I know," he continues, and clutches him closer about the waist to meet his lips for a deeper kiss. His tongue slips over the corner of Merlin's mouth, and then in more directly, and as Merlin sighs and arches into the sensation, he pauses to add, "It was a test, I think."

Merlin gasps and shivers, pressing them closer with his arms wrapped tightly about Arthur's waist. "But will they let you stay anyway?" he manages, as his thigh slides between Arthur's legs. Arthur rubs gratefully against him, warm and slick. "Is it for good?"

"Anyway?" Arthur asks, and suddenly laughs big and full, "No, you don't understand. Whatever the test was, you passed." He laughs again, happily. "So yeah, it's for good. But I'm under the impression that this is a marriage of sorts, so perhaps we'd better get on with the making it official."

"A marriage?" Merlin asks quizzically, slipping a hand between them. Arthur's dick is heavy against his palm, already hard.

Arthur groans and presses into Merlin's hand. "If you'll have me," he says, and suddenly he sounds shy and almost uncertain. Merlin is crying again, although actually it's more likely that he never stopped.

"Of course," He says, and then feels the need to say it again and again and again. "You stupid, stupid git. Of course."

"I love you," Arthur whispers, his breath hot against Merlin's ear, and Merlin scrabbles at his hands, drawing them downward to lace their fingers together over the both of them, gasping as the strokes shudder over and through him. Their hands slip together again and again, and it's been scarcely a moment, but Merlin knows he won't last, not this time.

"Yes," Arthur whispers fervently, "You're so beautiful." It's uncharacteristic of him, to say something so easy and honest like this, and it makes Merlin whimper helplessly. "Come for me," Arthur whispers, and for a moment Merlin is strangely ashamed. He ought to be the one begging and praying and exalting, because Arthur's here, he's alive and back and here. That thought is really enough. Merlin gasps and looks up at Arthur, pale, wet eyelashes, strong jaw, parted lips, and comes. He feels Arthur's answering shudder a moment later, watches his face contort beautifully as their bodies tense as one.

Arthur sighs expansively, then, and crushes Merlin to him, kissing him messily. His still-wet hair is sharp as it hits Merlin's brow, and Merlin welcomes the sudden clarity that comes with the sting. Arthur sighs again, exultant, and draws his callused hand over Merlin's cheek. again, "So beautiful," he whispers, again. "Nobody else will ever know it like I do."

"Whereas everyone will always know how unfairly attractive you are," Merlin replies, and stands up on his tiptoes to place a kiss on Arthur's nose. Arthur's arms encircle him, and they stay there for a moment, lips nearly but not quite brushing.

"I think we're being summoned," Arthur murmurs against his mouth, and sure enough the coracle is now waiting beside them, bumping lightly against Arthur's shoulder.

"We'd better go, then," Merlin says, and Arthur hoists him into the little boat before clambering in behind him. Merlin runs curious fingers over Arthur's side as the boat steers them toward the island, unaided. There's no cut, not even the faintest of scars. Arthur watches him, silent but softly happy, and shrugs at Merlin's questioning look. The boat shudders to a stop, and Merlin stands. These questions can be asked when they're far away from this strange place, but first this last task, whatever it is. They step out of the boat together, and walk through the ruins of Avalon.

Morgana is waiting for them, in the same center courtyard where all the important things seem to happen. Merlin is strangely unsurprised to see her, but Arthur looks a bit confused.

"I don't understand it myself," she says, in answer to his unasked question. "I'm not certain how I got here, although I'm sure Morgause helped. I had a vision, I knew this was where I had to be. I've things to tell you, things I've seen."

"Get on with it then," Arthur says, but he's smiling warmly at her. "I've got to drag my unrepentant warlock back to Camelot and carry him over my threshold.

"Careful, Arthur," Morgana says, and lets loose a silvery laugh. "He's powerful, he could just as easily carry you."

"He's right here, too," Merlin cuts in, "So maybe you two could stop talking about me and get on with this?"

"He thought I'd gone and died and left him alone," Arthur says conspiratorially. "As if I would."

"Enough of this then," Morgana says regretfully. "I'd like to get back to Morgause. It's been a long time since I've really seen her, without the enchantment clouding my mind. I've just got to give you two some information, and then I can go where I belong and you can be on your merry way as well. Firstly, I do hope you're all right with the whole eternal love thing, because if you decide to keep this life, you're pretty much stuck with one another. Merlin, I suggest you think long and hard before you make _Arthur_ a permanent part of your life."

"I think I might be a bit of a masochist," Merlin says, "But I'd like to keep him."

"How very sweet," Arthur says dryly. "I've got to hang around Merlin as he'll get into loads of trouble without me. That's a yes from me too, then."

He steps a little closer to lean against Merlin's side, their hands clasped together before them.

"Excellent," Morgana says, and purses her lips. "All right, the only other thing you need to know is that you're not going to age like everyone else does. It's all well and good to be alive instead of not, but this isn't the sort of thing that you can just do halfway. If you're coming back, you're coming back for good, and that means Merlin is too. You'll always have each other, and I suspect that others of us will put in appearances from time to time, but in times of great need, this land may call on you again to rally the people and defend the land. If that happens, you must both be prepared to do so. Do you accept these terms?"

Arthur's face is pensive, but he doesn't hesitate. "Of course, I pledge my life to Gramarye." He hesitates. "And to Merlin. Sorry, but it's got to be his, too."

Merlin squeezes his hand. "And I will always belong to my country, and to my king."

"Excellent," Morgana says, and claps her hands together. "But while I have you here with all these things I know, I may as well tell you that Arthur, you'll look wonderful in waistcoats, and Merlin, you're going to fall in love with home coffeemakers. You'll both like the telly more than any two people are really supposed to, and Arthur will sometimes wear these awful sweaters, but don't worry Merlin, you'll talk sense into him. There's lot of other things but I'm afraid they'll make even less sense as of yet. Better to just learn them as they happen."

"Good enough," Merlin says. "Apparently we've got plenty of time."

"Yes," Morgana says warmly. "Yes you have."

She steps forward, unembarrassed by their nudity. "There will be plenty of time for this once we're all back where we belong, but I wanted to say that I love you both, dearly." She leans in close and presses a kiss to each of their brows.

Arthur smiles radiantly, and in the moment where Merlin is made slack-jawed by the brilliance of it, Morgana is gone.

"Will you kiss me?" Arthur asks sweetly. He puts out his hand, and Merlin takes it.

"I'll always kiss you, you prat," Merlin says, and does just that, placing his lips delicately against Arthur's and leaning up into the embrace. "Shall we go home?" he asks.

"Yes," Arthur replies. "Can you get us there with magic? It's only, we haven't any clothes."

"Of course," Merlin says. "I can get us wherever we need to be, though I'd really like everyone to see you like this. You look," He hesitates, shakes his head a little. "I don't know. You look perfect. Magnificent."

Arthur grins but he's blushing a little, high on his cheeks. "If it's all right, I think I'd like to keep the posing to a minimum, preferably just around you."

"Oh all right," Merlin says, and draws him close as his eyes go golden. "No dramatic entrances."

And so it was that the people of Camelot lost their king to an angry, persecuted child, and a lady in a lake. That story was known, and it was told for countless years, until the truth became so shrouded in time and tale that it was very nearly lost. The story that was never told, though, was how the king came back, and how he ruled his land, his warlock ever at his side. It doesn't tell of how the people rejoiced, how magic returned to the land and Camelot prospered, because of it. That's all right, though, because the people who mattered knew it already, and still do, and always will, and they're content to sit and love and remember it, until Gramarye calls to them again.

 _She is not any common earth  
Water or wood or air,  
But Merlin's Isle of Gramarye  
Where you and I will fare._

-T.H. White, The Once and Future King

**Author's Note:**

> My lovely betas:
> 
> Erda as there for me from the beginning. She read my very ugly first scenes, and was kind and encouraging throughout. She gave me the confidence to let this story be as long as it needed to be, and to turn it into a big bang! Thanks you so much!
> 
> Nuclearsugars fixed my out of control run-on sentence problems. She also helped me through the final stages of my writing process by generally being fantastic, providing fic recs and pictures of Zach Quinto at my demand, and by proving herself as awesome in person as she is online. She is the best beta in the universe, so thank you bb!
> 
> Snottygrrl helped me with a number of story continuity issues. She also did a great deal of work with my writing flow and word choices. I cannot say enough how thankful I am for her frank, concise beta read, and I hope this story is all the better for the enormous amount of aid she provided. If even a bit of her lovely, lyrical tone comes through here, I will be extremely pleased. Thank you!
> 
> lilith_lessfair was patient and then remarkably swift, even though her copy of the draft arrived rather late. Her incredibly kind feedback was exactly what I needed, and made me feel far more confident about posting this work. Her comments were thoughtful, and she really helped me to consider broad plot details in the context of specific scenes. I feel so lucky to have had such a kind beta reader, and even more so to have someone who so completely understood everything I was trying to say with this fic. Thanks!
> 
> Thank you so much, all of you, and thank you to and its incredibly hardworking mods for putting this together!
> 
> A Few Words About Arthurian Lore:
> 
> I suspect I'm not the only Merlin fan who was drawn to the show because of its roots in Arthurian legend. As a child, I read the Once and Future King and the Dark is Rising sequence repeatedly. I loved The Black Cauldron, and when I got older I moved on to the Mabinogion. This story drew heavy inspiration from the Mabinogion and the Welsh Triads in particular.
> 
> The story of Eda Great-Knee is of my own creation. However he is present in the triads of the Red Book of Hergest:
> 
> Three Faithless War-Bands of the Islands of Britain:"...the War-Band of Gwrgi and Peredur, who abandoned their lord at Caer Greu, when they had an appointment to fight the next day with Eda Great-Knee; and there they were both slain."
> 
> I might add, the Peredur of legend was in general considered a valiant man, to whom a great deal of writing was dedicated. He may have been a historical figure, not just a literary creation.
> 
> Gaheris was known for bravery too, as was Bors. T.H. White did not present Bors so favorably, but I returned to the source.
> 
> The herbs listed throughout this story came from texts on medieval medicine and birth control. I can vouch for their having been used, though not for their efficacy.
> 
> There were of course a few major divergences from the traditional legend, done out of necessity. Gwen would traditionally have been Leodegrance's daughter. Lancelot would have killed Gaheris, who would have been Morgause's son. Joyous Gard would have been Lancelot's castle. Arthur would have died in a great battle, though Merlin's sorrow would have been no less.
> 
> As for the title of this story, Arthur and Merlin were both correct. White uses it somewhat synonymously with "Albion," while historically the word provides the basis for the term, "Grimoire."
> 
> In closing, thank you again to all the people who read, encouraged, brainstormed and critiqued this story. Many thanks as well to the mods who made this event possible. I can't imagine the amount of work that went into organizing this fest, and I can't wait to read all the other wonderful stories that come out of it! Thanks!


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